


The Forgetting of Things Past

by Ghislainem70



Series: The Indestructibles [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac!John, Angst, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE.  An old-fashioned country house mystery in the style of Agatha Christie.  (Except for the nsfw bits)  John returns from Afghanistan with amnesia and becomes the prime suspect in a murder investigation at the Holmes's estate in Yorkshire, which is complicated by the fact that John has forgotten everything about the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.  </p><p>This work stands alone, but is part of the Indestructible series of casefic adventures.  This verse is not entirely canon-compliant with the BBC series, mostly as regards the Holmes family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Souls.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on LJ in 2012. I've written several hundred thousand words of Sherlock fic since then, and I've come a long way in my craft I'd like to think. I'd love to go back and do a thorough edit of The Indestructibles series, including this fic, which has a special place in my heart. I may yet find time to do that (while my current WIPS are calling) Fair warning and ymmv. Enjoy this amnesia!john mystery! 
> 
> G x

Prelude

 

When Sherlock was finally allowed to see John, his body looked shrunken and frail, like a broken toy, a fragile ghost lying against the pillows. He was dwarfed by the myriad tubes and blinking, hissing machines surrounding him and keeping him alive. Sherlock reverently kissed his forehead.

He talked to John quietly for a long time, as long as they would let him. He really didn’t know what he was saying, but he knew that he was saying very important things. It might have been something about his last experiment in 221b; or it might have been a promise never to do experiments in 221b ever again; it might have been about how he had finally figured out who the counterfeiter was in the Finnish currency affair; it might have been that he was ready now to try that new restaurant that was upsetting Angelo so; then again, it might have been that he couldn’t live without John, that John had taught him how to live and how to love, but had never taught him how to live without him and he couldn’t leave Sherlock until he did. It might have been that he finally remembered, now, about the sun and the moon, and about orbits. The irresistibility of orbits, how the earth did go round the sun, of course it did; and it might have been that all his life he had been in the dark, but John was the sun. It might have been that he did not intend to live a single moment on this earth, after John left it.

# # #

On the twelfth day, John opened his eyes.

His eyes focused, fuzzy, first on a glowing digital clock . It was 2:20 a.m. The place where he was lying –a bed – was very dark. But not completely quiet. There were muted sounds that were familiar, but confusing, at the same time.

His eyes seemed to adjust a little to the dark. There was a person-shape hovering over him but it was too dark to distinguish any features. He felt cool pressure in his left palm.

He must have made a sound because the figure came closer, very close, and he felt more pressure on his hand.

Now he could see. It was an alarmingly thin man with a mop of dark hair and haunted icy blue eyes. His face seemed achingly beautiful to John – although his head was so fuzzy that this might have been an hallucination. John felt a smile form on his cracked lips without understanding why. His voice was a mere croak.

“Hullo. I’m… afraid…um… — who –who are you? Do I – know you?” he said wonderingly.

An expression of – pain? – as though from a blow long dreaded, and yet sharper and more agonizing than expected, passed over the man’s gaunt face.

“My name — is Sherlock Holmes. You do …know me.”

The voice was unexpectedly deep, baritone; he realized that it was cultured, very toff, but didn’t knew why he knew this.

John sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t know anything, actually. He was very tired. He felt like he was swimming in a cold sea and losing his strength. Any moment he would go under. But the strong pressure on his hand anchored him to reality. It was the only real thing.

“Do you know who am I, then?” he mumbled weakly.

“Your name is John Watson. You’re a soldier. You’re a doctor. You’ve been – ”

Here the beautiful man’s voice cracked and he stopped speaking for a moment and bowed his head and the pressure on his left hand grew painful. Now he realized that this man was holding his hand.

How extraordinary.

John felt a warmth in his chest. But it was all right. He could not understand anything, but he felt this. And the name, John Watson, he felt that was right. Yes, he was John Watson. He was a soldier. He was doctor.

“You’re in — Afghanistan,” this man continued, his voice choking on the words. John opened his eyes again.

The man – surely he didn’t say his name was Sherlock, how odd – was staring with concentration at John’s face.

Afghanistan. Yes, that too sounded right. He knew about Afghanistan. At least he thought he did. There was a huge white space where knowledge, where thoughts and memories ought to reside. Suddenly his heart was racing. “God, what’s wrong with me!” He was thrashing now, trying to get out of the bed but there were some kind of restraints –

This man, this Sherlock – actually put his cool hand against John’s chest and he felt calmer.

“John— it’s all right, John – you don’t remember me. But it’s going to be all right. Ask yourself this – do you trust me?”

This Sherlock Holmes was staring at him as though his answer would be the most important thing he would ever hear.

Do I trust him? John turned the word over in his mind. Trust.

He considered his hand, clasped in the other man’s longer fingers, palm to palm. He vaguely noticed that he hadn’t felt any impulse to remove it. He didn’t think he was accustomed to holding men’s hands quite in this way; but then again, he just didn’t know anything. His head hurt. It was going to explode, probably.

He considered this man’s face, he almost looked unhinged with some strong emotions (Pain? Grief? Guilt?) and the evidences of a physical ordeal, illness in the sunken cheekbones and hollows of his eyes (he is right; I am a doctor, John acknowledged.)

He considered the feeling in his chest where this man’s other hand was pressing firmly. All of this felt completely alien, his own body felt like it was unconnected to him somehow, it was somebody else’s body, and this tall man was a total stranger, and yet–

He felt himself flushing and didn’t understand why that should be except that the man was so bloody close, and he was feeling dizzy but the question – did he trust this man? – he felt he must answer and answer truthfully.

“Yes. I do – trust you. God knows why.”

There was a fire in the other man’s eyes now: joy, triumph.

“Good. That’s all we need. For now. I’m going for the doctor.”

“How long?” John asked. His strength was gone and soon he would be gone again, too. Sherlock Holmes looked away. Then he said, twelve days, and in his voice John thought he could hear a whole universe of grief.

Then the cold sea overtook him, and he was falling down into dark waters where the only point of light was Sherlock Holmes’ eyes.

 

 

Chapter One.

 

Sherlock had always despised psychiatrists.

Lesser specimens in the mental health field (psychologists, therapists, social workers) did not even merit being despised; they were unworthy of any notice whatsoever.

It had been decreed by John’s treating neurologist — as well as by four separate world-renowned consulting neurologists Sherlock had acquired for second, third, fourth and fifth opinions — that John absolutely required an indefinite course of psychotherapy. The purpose of which was to attempt treat John’s retrograde amnesia.

John had lost all memory of his life from the moments after he was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan, more than one year previously.

John’s post-traumatic stress disorder and the return of his psychosomatic symptoms – a limp and hand tremor – also required psychotherapy. Hence, for the first time since he was at uni, Sherlock was sitting in a chair, in a psychiatrist’s office, in London.

His erect posture gave the impression that he was poised to flee.

Dr. Nazimi was a tiny, elegant, silver-haired woman of Indian descent, dressed in Paris couture and discreetly dazzling pearls. She was reputed to be absolutely the top psychiatrist in London; her appointment calendar was closed to all but the highest echelons of London society. But this meant nothing to Sherlock: the reason he was here, in this office in St. John’s Wood, was Dr. Nazimi’s specialty. Which was memory loss, and specifically, retrograde amnesia. She did not generally treat soldiers; Sherlock's presence here, and her accepting John Watson as a patient, had been faciliated by Lady Eugenia Holmes, Sherlock's mother.

Dr. Nazimi’s voice was high and musical, like a glass chime. Easy to misjudge, Sherlock thought. "Mr. Holmes, the fact that you are here means you are willing to assist Doctor Watson in his recovery. That is very good. A patient such as Doctor Watson needs intensive support. But I cannot stress strongly enough that it needs to be the right kind of support. Or he will regress; worse yet, he could lose whatever chance he may have at recovery."

Sherlock was clutching a thick folder of papers in his hands. He nodded. Dr. Nazimi smiled at him encouragingly. He did not smile back. Dr. Nazimi was undaunted. She saw that Sherlock was filtering, weighing everything she said, that the only words that really mattered were "chance," and "recovery."

"I appreciate that you find the Personal Inventory to be intrusive; many persons do," she continued cheerfully. "But it is vital for me to have it, both from you, and from Doctor Watson’s family. I have already seen Harriet Watson, you know. In terms of close family, she is all that he has."

Sherlock shook his head vehemently in the negative, and she misunderstood him. " Well, there are the cousins in Manchester, but that’s not really of any practical help."

Sherlock could not help it. With a heavy sigh, he folded his arms and tried very hard not to roll his eyes in scorn. "He doesn’t need Harry’s help. If you really knew anything about Harry, you’d know that she is the last person to help John. I’m all he needs."

Dr. Nazimi regarded him narrowly. Actually, Holmes was partially right. Harriet was a narcissistic alcoholic, whose only apparent interest in John’s amnesia was whether Dr. Nazimi would be willing to sell the rights to the story. Harriet was already in talks with an agent for a television movie.

As for Holmes’ determination to be the sole custodian of Doctor John Watson, she reserved judgment.

* * *

"Of course you are aware, Mr. Holmes, that other than Harriet, Doctor Watson reports his closest associates to be fellow soldiers in the British Army." She consulted her notes. "Here it is: One Lieutenant Monroe, one Captain Jack Barton, one Captain George Forsyte, and one Corporal Stuart -- ah, Cartwright."

"Caldwell," Sherlock said miserably.

"Ah." She corrected her notes.

"And what is your opinion, Doctor Nazimi, as to how John will be – affected — by learning that two of the four supposed ‘closest associates’ are dead? He doesn’t remember. How does this ‘assist his recovery’?"

Dr. Nazimi was silent a moment, considering. "The answer is not as straightforward as you might think. Doctor Watson has suffered a brain injury to the frontal lobe. The damage itself is fortunately very slight. And the amnesia is, fortunately, not terribly extensive as such cases go. His memories of everything before approximately one year ago, from before he suffered the wound to his shoulder in Afghanistan, are intact."

She regarded Sherlock surreptitiously as she pretended to review John’s chart. His face was very pale, gaunt; and he had huge purplish circles in the hollows of his eyes. He looked horribly ill, and under an unbearable strain. She pitied him.

So far, he had refused any help for himself.

"As you seem to be — please forgive me if I am mistaken — an unsentimental man — I will tell you that the stories you see in the movies, of an amnesiac regaining lost memories after heroic efforts on the part of his spouse— do not happen with real patients. In my experience."

"Doctor Nazimi, I can assure you I have made no effort whatsoever to "educate" Doctor Watson about any of his — lost memories."

Dr. Nazimi was surprised. Usually the families of amnesics began a relentless campaign of "reminding" the patient of his past experiences immediately. This Sherlock Holmes must have a great deal of self-control, she thought.

"And I happen to think that a good thing. For now," she said. "I firmly believe that attempts tell amnesiacs the stories of what happened during their "lost time," are stressful in the extreme for the patient. The patient suffers a great deal of anxiety, even shame, as they simply cannot "recall" things they have no more actual memory of – anniversaries, Christmases, engagements; even the existence of important relationships such as a loving spouse, a close friend."

Sherlock studiously examined the volumes on her bookshelf.

"They know they are failing," she continued. "That they are hurting people who say that they love them – although the amnesiacs themselves have lost those feelings of love or friendship. Some practitioners, it is true, encourage "reminder therapy," where close family and friends "remind" the amnesiac of past events, past relationships. My own belief is that the patient simply adopts what they are told: mimicking actual memory, so to speak. It is a coping mechanism."

"So," Sherlock said, "it is the same as in the case of eyewitness testimony. An eyewitness to a robbery, for example, can easily be persuaded that the robber had blond hair, for example, when in fact he had black hair. Or was bald. The power of suggestion."

Dr. Nazimi agreed. "Precisely."

"So I understand that it is your recommendation that no one should try to tell Doctor Watson anything about his . . ..experiences . . . .of the past year?"

"Well, I would not go so far as that. He has already been told that he was sent back to London after being wounded in Afghanistan. He has been told that he took rooms with you in Baker Street. Certainly, he knows that you claim to have been his flatmate. He has no recollection of these things, however, as you know. He has been told that he returned to Afghanistan, and that you were there, too, and that he suffered a brain injury. He knows he has amnesia. He has no recollection of returning again to Afghanistan, or indeed of his . . .relationship with you, Mr. Holmes. John Watson is not just suffering from amnesia; his post-traumatic stress disorder — which appears to have improved before you and he went to Afghanistan together — is back, full-blown."

"I was aware of it," Sherlock said impatiently. The woman was insufferable. No one knew more about John’s condition than Sherlock himself. John was barely able to walk, but when he did, it was with a marked limp. His left hand had an intermittent tremor. He suffered excruciating headaches. His multiple abdominal surgeries had left him debilitated and frail. Nightmares haunted his nights; waking nightmares haunted his days.

Sherlock simply willed away the fact that he himself was not much better off, really.

* * *

"To have lost just a year, well, that is not by any stretch of the imagination the worst case scenario. I am far more concerned, Mr. Holmes, about John’s overall mental state than I am about whether he ever recovers his memory of the last year."

"Under what circumstances do you believe he could ever recover it?" Sherlock asked. He tried very hard to keep any note of hope, or worse, need, from his voice.

"Let’s talk about that in a bit. Please let me see your Personal Inventory now, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock passed the folder across her desk and commenced scrutinizing her quite stunning collection of Renaissance etchings.

After a few long minutes, she put the folder away. "I see you have been under treatment before."

"Yes."

"Why did you not continue?"

"If you read the diagnosis, you know why."

"But that’s ridiculous. Your – feelings – for Doctor Watson, your desire to protect him, these all point to some qualities of empathy in you. People can learn, change. Some more than others. I won’t condescend to you, Mr. Holmes. Sociopaths, even high-functioning ones, almost never submit to treatment. Willingly. I can help you, and you need help. Very badly."

"I’m not here about me. I’m here for John. Can we return to that topic, if you please." Sherlock gave her a bleak, somewhat wolfen smile that left no room for doubt that the topic of his own mental health was off limits. A virtual steel curtain passed over his face.

"Very well. Your concern for Doctor Watson is admirable. But he needs breathing room to recover at his own pace, in his own way. There is no timetable here whatsoever. There is no question of him returning to the military, or to medical practice. Right now, his only job is to heal."

"Very well. I can do that." Sherlock stood up as if to go. This doctor appeared to be of no more use than the others. He felt his slender hopes slipping away. Foolish, really, he chastised himself. Time to let go of foolish dreams.

Dr. Nazimi held up her hands to stay him. "Mr. Holmes, I’m not certain that you can, you see. When John Watson returned to London a year ago, he was suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. He met you, and began living with you, a total stranger, within a few weeks of his return."

"Your point?"

"My point being that you then immediately commenced to involve Doctor Watson in a series of very dangerous cases that involved very real threats to both his life and to your own; matters that appear to have been more properly left to the police, I might add. Not the best means of recovering from post-traumatic stress disorder."

"I don’t expect you could understand," Sherlock spat arrogantly. "My sort of work was the best medicine he could have had. His limp disappeared after just one day. Ask my brother Mycroft if you don’t believe me. Wait, don’t do that. At any rate, yes: it is – was – dangerous; of course it was. I’m refuse to justify my – practice – to you. Lots of jobs are dangerous. And anyway, he told me that if he hadn’t met me, he would have just gone back to Afghanistan. I never tried to change who John was."

"Then there is your personal relationship with John. I will be blunt. While I am impressed with your – apparently — genuine love for Doctor Watson, there is a frankly unhealthy element of possessiveness that you have expressed here. You said earlier that you are ‘all he needs.’ I hope you don’t mean that. John needs a full life. You can’t keep him locked in your flat, with only you his contact with society. That would be the worst thing possible."

Sherlock looked blank. He really was all John needed. He had no idea why this woman thought there was question about this unalterable fact. Possibly her reputation was overblown. He attempted to stare her down but she was after all a more formidable adversary than he had supposed. She stared right back. He sighed dramatically.

"I won’t keep him locked up. If that’s what you mean."

Dr. Nazimi frowned. "I can still recommend to Doctor Watson that he enter care at a rehabilitation facility. If it comes to it, I can cause it to happen whether Doctor Watson agrees, or not. He is really on the borderline. I have to have trust in you."

Sherlock was transforming before her eyes: no longer pale and diminished, his face was positively glowing with pure fury. She was not afraid. Here was the face of the sociopath when his core possession was threatened. She calmly shuffled Sherlock’s file, pointedly ignoring the silent outburst. After a moment she perceived he had mastered his temper, and she continued.

* * *

 

Sherlock was outraged but did not want to provoke Nazimi into thinking any more about committing John to a psychiatric hospital.

Anything but that.

"I repeat, I am not saying that I'll keep him prisoner," he fumed. "If John could remember me, he would know I would do that.  In any event, obviously, John has no idea that I have ever been anything to him but a flatmate. He does not remember any of . . . our past. I assure you I won’t be reminding him."

"So you are willing to be just – flatmates — to help him in his recovery, be guided by my recommendations?"

"It appears I have no choice. The alternative is. . . unacceptable."

"You always have a choice. I hope you are hearing me when I tell you that Doctor Watson needs quiet and rest more than anything. No pressure to resume a relationship that he simply has no memory of. Yet, anyway. That will mean a great change on your part as well."

"Doctor Nazimi. I don’t care if John Watson ever . . . .thinks of me in that way again. From what you say, if we ever are to be. . . what we were to each other, it has to come from him."

"You are remarkably intelligent, Mr. Holmes. Your record at uni does not bear that out. You are easily bored, I see. Don’t let that lead you into activities, into scenarios, that are best avoided for now. I think you understand me."

"I do. Now would you kindly answer my question."

"What was that?"

"Under what circumstances could John ever recover his memory? Do you believe in the ‘Petities Madeleines Phenomenon’?"

Doctor Nazimi pulled a journal down from her bookshelf. It was the neurological journal, Brain. "I see you have done your homework. Here it is, ‘The Petites Madeleines Phenomenon in Two Amnesiac Patients.’ Italian researchers. So you understand the reference?"

Sherlock snorted arrogantly. "I may have dropped out of Cambridge but I think everyone remembers their Proust."

"Then you remember that Proust’s memories were triggered by the little cakes, the petite madeleines. Some believe — I am among them – that restrograde amnesiacs only truly recover the neurologic hard-wired memories stored in the brain – upon a trigger from their former life."

Sherlock’s demeanor was keen now. "One man was playing tennis. Suddenly he remembered being in exactly the same situation, several years before: playing tennis. Memories came flooding back. One man, being prepared for surgery, suddenly remembered being in the same position – preparing for a hernia operation – twenty years before," he said excitedly.

"Yes, in a flash, the memories flooded back," Dr. Nazimi agreed. "He didn’t stop talking for two days. But one can never predict what random occurrence may have this effect."

Sherlock stood to go. He had learned nothing, really, that he didn’t already know from his voracious researches into retrograde amnesia. All that had happened was that Dr. Nazimi had possibly learned something about him.

Only what he was willing that she should learn, of course.

As he turned the door handle to go, Dr. Nazimi called after him, "Mr. Holmes. There is one more thing you should know."

"Yes?" he asked, not looking at her. Now he was filled with dread. He knew what she was going to say. He had hoped she would not. But she was more observant than he had expected, after all.

"I don’t think you will be surprised if I tell you that there is a psychological aspect to retrograde amnesia. As I said, his brain injury was mild, considering. In other words, Doctor Watson may very well simply not want to remember the past year."

"You mean, he doesn’t want to remember anything . . . about me. About us. That’s what you’re saying."

Dr. Nazimi regretted being so forthright with this Sherlock Holmes. But John Watson was her patient. She needed to keep that in mind.

"It may very well be that there is something . . .associated. . . with the memory of you. Something that is too deep, too painful, for him to bear to remember. And so, he has erased that memory altogether. Or if it is there, he has buried it very deeply."

"Why should he do that?"

"I think the only person who can answer that is you. I’m certain that you can, if you put your mind to it. But really, it does not change any of my advice today."

"So you advise what, exactly?"

"Let it stay buried. For now. Only time will tell."

He did not say goodbye. The door shut. Dr. Nazimi felt a strong surge of sorrow for the tragedy of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Amnesiacs were lost souls.

Sherlock Holmes was a lost soul, too.

She intended to try and give them a fighting chance. But realistically, the odds were against them.

She closed the file and put it away. She shook away a tiny tear and smoothed her hair. Time for the next patient.  
　  
To be continued . . .


	2. The New General.

Sherlock made only three changes to 221b before John returned home.

First, he switched their bedrooms. Actually, they had been using John’s exclusively for quite some months now: Sherlock’s was full of assorted arcane, unmentionable, odorous and lethal objects. Now John had the downstairs bedroom and Sherlock, the upstairs one. The reason for the change was that John had difficulty with stairs – not just because of his limp (still deemed psychosomatic), but because his recent surgeries had left a mass of scar tissue adhering to his abdominal muscles. Over time this was expected to improve; gentle exercise and massage were prescribed.

So far John showed no interest in pursuing either; mostly, he sat watching bad television listlessly.

Without Sherlock’s messes littering it, John’s room was returned to the near-military order that he habitually maintained. The only item of John’s that Sherlock kept for himself was John’s old oatmeal-colored jumper. Soon it would be cold enough that John might need it; but until then, Sherlock wanted it for his own. It was a talisman. Of sorts.

Second, Sherlock disposed of the few little evidences around the flat that they had ever enjoyed intimate relations together. Sherlock could not bear to imagine that John might discover such things – and possibly be repulsed.

Third, and Sherlock gave this a great deal of consideration, he locked John’s old laptop away and replaced it with an identical new one. If John wanted to explore it for signs of his past life, well, Sherlock had imported most of the other mostly trivial items from the old laptop; only the blog was excepted. From John’s total memory loss it followed that he did not recall his blog. Sherlock had been obsessively reading, and re-reading, John’s blog entries. Now, Sherlock excoriated himself for having once snarled at John to "stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

If John had paid him any mind (he hadn’t – just quietly and firmly left 221b, leaving Sherlock to indulge his tantrum in solitude), Sherlock would not have these precious words: the only record of the memories of one Doctor John Watson’s adventures with the fascinating Sherlock Holmes. After mocking Sherlock’s lack of basic knowledge of the solar system in "A Study in Pink," John had studiously avoided any remarks of a personal nature in his blog concerning Sherlock, or their relationship. Sherlock devoutly wished now that he had never upbraided John for that; perhaps John would have felt freer to write a more intimate narrative.

Reading John’s blog, Dr. Nazimi had been horrified by the extreme dangers Sherlock and John had endured. She advised that for now, the blog should be kept hidden from John. Later, though, when he was stronger, it would be necessary to reveal it to John, she advised; being that these were John’s own thoughts and recollections, not filtered by anyone else.

Otherwise, Sherlock left everything just the way that it had been left before they joined Spartan and went to Afghanistan together, just four months and a different lifetime ago.

He could not tell which of the multitude of objects that crowded 221b might be the ‘petite madeleine,’ the trigger that brought John back to him.

* * *

Just an hour after Sherlock brought John back to 221b, he was forced to leave John alone. He had a lunch meeting at a pub with Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

Lestrade had repeatedly demanded to be allowed to visit John while he recovered in hospital but with John’s doctors’ agreement, Sherlock had refused, saying only that John was recovering from difficult surgeries and was permitted no visitors. Lestrade, Sherlock knew, had attempted to go over Sherlock’s head to Mycroft; but Mycroft had finally learned from prior indiscretions where John and Sherlock were concerned to keep his mouth shut, and Lestrade learned nothing of consequence from Mycroft.

But Lestrade was not a Scotland Yard detective for nothing. Lestrade had his own resources. He made a point to learn the exact hour when John and Sherlock returned to 221b. Whereupon, Sherlock texted him immediately (having observed the plainclothes officer parked in Baker Street in a discreetly obvious car), demanding some time to get John settled before Lestrade came charging up the stair. And set an appointment for lunch to discuss matters of mutual importance.

This had held Lestrade off, just barely. Sherlock had taken the precaution of ensuring that John’s cell phone was well hidden and its battery dead. John had not shown the slightest desire to call anyone in England, anyway – Harry had sent John an inappropriately cheery postcard from Keyna, where she was on photo safari with her new girlfriend Gillian.

Sherlock watched John covertly as they approached 221b, slightly angry to observe himself praying that the sight of their front door might be the trigger. Get ahold of yourself, can’t you, you simply can’t do this every minute, he scolded himself harshly.

John merely stood by passively as Sherlock found the key and opened the door. John had become unavoidably aware that Sherlock usually watched him with the attention that a mongoose devoted to a cobra, but with no memory to go on, he just assumed that his flatmate was a little . . . intense.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson met them at the door, exclaiming and fussing over John’s emaciated state and promising to bring up some tea and sandwiches immediately for "poor dear Doctor Watson." Sherlock had warned Mrs. Hudson of John’s condition and asked her not to try and remind him of any past events. Mrs. Hudson, the soul of discretion, readily agreed. She greeted them at the door with a cheerful, "Doctor Watson, it’s me, Mrs. Hudson, but you’re not to know that, are you luv," and followed them up the stair. John clearly did not remember Mrs. Hudson – but Sherlock was fascinated to observe that he perked up, just faintly, under her motherly attentions. Always the ladies’ man, he caught himself observing inwardly with some frustration.

So far, nothing about Sherlock’s own attentions had sparked any visible response in John other than polite gratitude.

Sherlock let John follow up the stair at his own pace, more labored even than the first time he entered 221b. His face was drawn and white with pain by the time he opened the door to the flat. John paused on the threshold.

He regarded the spectacular mess of loose papers, medical journals, newspaper clippings, crime scene photographs, lab beakers and arcane plant specimens impassively, merely cocking a disbelieving eyebrow before picking his way carefully to his accustomed chair, into which he sank gratefully. He tossed down his cane.

"I take it that homeless squatters have been minding the flat in our absence," he deadpanned.

Sherlock bit his lip and turned away to hide the sudden flood of joy this little witticism brought bubbling up in his own emaciated chest. He began picking up a few papers.

"Yes, well, I can straighten things up a bit . . ." he offered.

John gave a dry chuckle. "Really, Holmes, it can wait. Don’t bother. I don’t think the Queen is coming," he said.

Sherlock hated it, absolutely hated it, that John declined to call him Sherlock, even after being asked to do so. A more formal "Holmes" therefore hung in the air between them. Sherlock took his cue and now forced himself to call John "Watson" in return. He hated that, too. He had lost even the privilege to call John by his beloved name, the name so often uttered in aggravation, in affection, in decadent passion, and in love.

He almost wanted to say that after the Scottish adventure of the wreck of the Queen’s yacht, he could probably arrange for John to see the Queen, but let it drop. He observed that all of the spark had abruptly left John, he was pale and slumped in the chair when Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tray. Even the tempting array of hot tea, sandwiches and biscuits failed to attract his notice.

"You need to eat something, luv," Mrs. Hudson insisted, pouring him out a cup. He shook his head.

"I’m . . . not really hungry, thanks anyway, Mrs. . . ."

"It’s Mrs. Hudson, luv," Mrs. Hudson finished helpfully when it became clear that John could not recall her name.

"Please give them to Holmes. He needs feeding up too, looks like a bloody scarecrow," John said, his voice weak with exhaustion.

John tipped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. He was clearly overwhelmed by their journey today, and the return to 221b. Dr. Nazimi had warned Sherlock that the first week would probably be very challenging.

"We have discussed your inappropriate possessiveness of Doctor Watson," she reminded Sherlock gently in their last meeting before John was released home from hospital. "Please don’t let those feelings lead you to intrude into his . . .personal space. Let him have his privacy and some quiet. Leave him alone for parts of the day; hospitals are very exhausting and from your experiences in Afghanistan, its not clear to me when, exactly, Doctor Watson had the simple luxury of privacy."

So it was that Sherlock pushed away the proffered tea and sandwiches and said abruptly, "Jo – Watson, I have a meeting, I’ll be out for a bit. Make yourself at home . . .obviously," he concluded awkwardly. John merely nodded his head but did not open his eyes or appear to note when Sherlock had left. He was, in fact, fast asleep.

Mrs. Hudson regarded John fondly. Just like little boy when he’s had a bit of a nasty shake-up, she thought. Straight back home and fast asleep. He know’s he’s home, even if he doesn’t know it, she thought pityingly.

She put the cozy over the teapot and tiptoed out of the flat, leaving John to his dreams.

* * *

Sherlock had chosen The Albert, a pub conveniently close to New Scotland Yard. Sherlock wanted to discourage Lestrade from coming any nearer to Baker Street for as long as he could.

The Albert was in Victorian building of mellow golden brick, dwarfed by glass office buildings overlooking it. It was a picturesque pub; resplendent with ornate cut glass windows, a proper dark wood bar, and cozy corners. The window boxes were overflowing with well-kept flowers. There was still festive Union Jack bunting from the Royal Wedding. Sherlock generally avoided pubs except when it was necessary to frequent them for a case. When he observed himself casting an appreciative eye over the lovely old pub, he realized that it was with the thought of how much John would like this place, and wishing he had thought to bring him here. Before.

Shaking these thoughts away, he entered the dark pub. It was buzzing with lunch visitors from the surrounding offices and Sherlock recognized a few Scotland Yarders among the crowd. He caught sight of Lestrade’s silvery head, ordered his pint, and made his way back.

He was unprepared for Lestrade’s undisguised shock at Sherlock’s altered appearance. Sherlock had expended no effort whatsoever on his own health or comfort since the moment he and John had parted in the Spartan outpost – Sherlock to interrogate the Afghan prisoner, John on a mission to reconnoiter the warlord’s mountain compound. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bothered to look in a mirror. His appearance was irrelevant.

Now, though, from Lestrade’s expression, he realized his appearance couldn’t be . . . good. He had lost all of the weight from muscle he had put on in Spartan’s training regimen, and a good deal more; lack of sleep and relentless anxiety had etched their mark upon Sherlock’s alabaster features. He might have neglected to shave recently. Where he had previously been slender, now he was nearly emaciated. His haunted eyes were restless.

Lestrade was appalled. Not so much for Sherlock; he knew well that Sherlock was in many ways completely mad, and his particular brand of madness made him prone to refuse to eat or rest when he was absorbed in a case. Nevertheless, he had never seen Sherlock in such a debilitated state. He looked like a broken man.

And it was this which planted an icy dagger in Lestrade’s heart. There could only be one reason. Whatever happened to John in Afghanistan, it was much, much worse than Lestrade had feared.

They regarded each other warily. Lestrade dropped any plans he may have had to try and start with small talk.

"Sherlock, Christ, you look a wreck. You need to pull yourself together. Because I’m expecting you to take good care of John. Right now you don’t look fit to look after yourself. Look, it’s not the drugs again, is it?" He ventured fearfully.

Sherlock frowned and took a long pull from his ale. It soothed him just a little. Lestrade pushed his untouched half of a sandwich toward him and stared until Sherlock started to bite.

"Don’t be absurd. Of course it’s not drugs. I wanted to see you, Lestrade, to ask you a favor."

"It depends, doesn’t it?" Lestrade asked, arms folded. He expected Sherlock to try and take advantage of whatever health problems John was currently facing to try and keep John away from his old friends. Especially old friends who desperately wanted to make love to John and take him away from Sherlock and his particular brand madness for good.

"It’s not for me. I know you won’t believe it, but it’s not for me. You see, John suffered a . . . brain injury in Afghanistan. He has amnesia."

Lestrade was crushed with dismay and grief. "God no, not John. . . will he be all right? Is it temporary? What do you mean, exactly, ‘amnesia’?"

Sherlock sighed. He really didn’t want to have to tell this story. Not to anybody. He didn’t even want to tell himself. But he did it anyway, using the minimum number of words humanly possible to convey what had happened. The scope of the problem.

"So you’re telling me that John won’t know me. Won’t know Sally, Anderson, Dimmock; anybody from the Yard."

"That is what I expect, certainly. His doctors say he has lost a full year. All of his time from after he got shot a year ago, in Afghanistan. Those memories are . . . gone."

Lestrade drank some ale and considered, rubbing his chin.

"What if you’re wrong?" He asked.

"What do you mean, ‘wrong’? I assure you John has lost his memory; there is no question of that. He has seen many doctors, world-class, I might add."

"Of course, the great Sherlock Holmes is never wrong, is that it?" Lestrade said with some sarcasm, then immediately regretted it. No point kicking the man when he was down. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t do the same to him, in spades, he thought darkly.

"I don’t understand you, Lestrade. I tell you, there is no mistake."

"Well, have you considered that he may not remember you, and he may not remember living with you, or your flat, or your housekeeper. But have you considered he might have good reasons - -maybe very good reasons – for that?"

Sherlock was very still. This was pretty much what Dr. Nazimi had hinted. He pushed away the doubts that were rising in him.

Lestrade continued: "Sherlock, look – maybe, just maybe, John will remember his . . .friends, people who care about him, people at Scotland Yard. And the clinic, what about that nice bird – Sarah, was it? How do you know he doesn’t remember them, or wouldn’t, if given the chance?"

Sherlock merely stared arrogantly and got up to leave. "I’m sorry to have wasted your time and mine," he snapped. "If you don’t believe me, just understand that his own doctor says he needs peace, quiet and rest. He’s not to be — bothered — with hordes of people breaking into the flat, reminding him that they are his "friends." I tell you he doesn’t remember, and when he realizes just how bad it is, how much he’s — lost — it’s going to be quite a shock. . . .Don’t you see I’m trying to protect him from all that? Can’t you just give me ... a month?"

Lestrade considered. A month. A month during which, no doubt, Sherlock Holmes would employ every device in within his considerable, wicked power to get John Watson right back where he wanted him.

Sherlock was gripping the edge of the table and the bones of his knuckles shone through his almost translucent skin. Lestrade sighed.

"Damn you, Sherlock. God damn you. If you don’t do everything, and I mean everything, to see that John gets well, I will personally see that you pay. And I won’t make it easy. Not this time," he threatened. "And, I expect an update pretty much whenever I want one. No turning off your cell. And, I want his doctor’s telephone number."

"She won’t talk to you. Patient confidentiality and all that."

"You let me handle that end of things. The number, please."

Sherlock scribbled something on the back of one of Lestrade’s cards and turned to go.

"Sherlock," Lestrade called after him. Sherlock stopped and turned back. He looked lost. Lestrade relented. "Sherlock, you great idiot. Take care of yourself. All right? John needs you. God help him, but he does."

* * *

Sherlock made several stops on the way home.

First, the hairdresser, who gasped and chattered away for an hour, repairing the astonishing deterioration of Sherlock’s coiffure. A haircut and a shave restored Sherlock to some semblance of his former impeccably groomed self.

Next, he stopped at Barbour and bought a few merino sweaters – one was for himself, all of his clothes currently were hanging from his frame. He recalled Lestrade’s undisguised dismay at his appearance. Until he gained some weight possibly it would be better if he just wore things that fit him properly. And one for John, not the horrid oatmeal color that didn’t suit his coloring. John had hazel eyes, stormy and changeable. He chose a dark green, but then rejected it as possibly looking too . . . personal. He chose the charcoal grey instead, in a smaller size now too, although he hoped John wouldn’t notice that Sherlock noticed such things. In fact, once he left the shop he was sure he wouldn’t give the sweater to John at all. He would just tuck it into his bureau, he decided. And let John think it was his all along.

Finally he stopped at the Tesco Express near Euston Station and bought two bags of groceries. He was bewildered and aggravated by the useless array of choices even in the tiny store and was fuming with irritation by the time he checked out. John had formerly done the shopping, mostly; Sherlock could never be bothered to think about food. But now Sherlock was determined to do better. Also, he wanted to avoid running out to restaurants all the time, where people were likely to accost John, to confuse him. Possibly he could learn to . . . cook? He put that thought from his mind for later consideration.

* * *

Sherlock was appalled to find construction trucks crowding the entrance to 221b. Helmeted workers in fluorescent vests were coming and going, yelling and carrying things to and fro. An unholy racket of drilling, hammering, and buzzing clamored in the air, drowning out the noises of the street. He was so alarmed by the disturbance that this din might by causing to John that he sprang up the stairs two at a time, failing to observe the burgundy Rolls Royce parked across the street.

He burst into the flat to find John, pale but proper and erect in his seat, carrying on a subdued conversation over tea and biscuits with a tall, slim, silver-haired woman wearing country tweeds and practical heels. She put her teacup down and regarded Sherlock’s dramatic entrance with a frown of marked disapproval. Her bone structure alone disclosed that she could be none other than Sherlock’s mother, Lady Eugenia Holmes.

He dropped his packages.

"Really, Sherlock, the appalling state of this flat . . . I’d spoken to Mycroft, naturally; but I really had no idea. . . .well, never mind that now. I’ve finally had the privilege to meet your dashing Captain Watson. I am very angry with you, Sherlock. You might have telephoned. You’ve been back for hours."

Sherlock slouched dejectedly toward his mother and took her hand. "Hullo, Mother. I’m . . .sorry. I had to see someone right away."

"Always tearing around on your mysterious cases!!! Well, Captain Watson has been telling me a little about your troubles. I’m sorry to say you both look perfect wrecks."

A huge booming noise interrupted Lady Holmes’ train of thought. Sherlock saw John’s eyes go wide with terror and he shrank back in his chair at the sound. Just like an explosion, Sherlock realized. John’s hand shook and he gripped the arm of the chair to try and conceal it.

Lady Holmes, with the keen observant eye her younger son was also blessed (or cursed) with, noted this thoughtfully.

"Captain Watson, Sherlock, right. We’re off. Come along, this instant." She rose with a momentary expression of polite confusion as to where to put her own teacup, there being almost no uncluttered surface available. She finally moved a few autopsy photos with an impatient shake of the head and put it down. "Do you hear, Sherlock? I’ve exhausted my patience with your reckless behavior, and now all this . . .you don’t expect Captain Watson’s health to be restored in this squalid environment? With this unseemly racket? Well?"

John was looking at Lady Holmes as though a guardian angel had descended from the heavens. He stood up and squared his shoulders. He was ready to follow his new general anywhere.

Sherlock groaned miserably. He had truly hoped to avoid such a thing coming to pass. But he had, as usual, underestimated Eugenia Holmes, whose nose for trouble and prevarication possibly exceeded his own. She had sensed his secret dilemma, and she refused to let him nurse it in private, in 221b, keeping John a recluse, if not exactly a prisoner, in the process. No, it simply wouldn’t do.

"Where, exactly, are we going, Mother?" Sherlock asked resignedly, although from her attire he was virtually certain he knew the answer.

"Sherlock, you know perfectly well where we are going. It’s the season. Time for country air. We’re for Riddleston Hall. Don’t pack a thing, Sherlock. Possibly Captain Watson, you might wish to pack a few things, you are not as tall as Sherlock and Mycroft. My dear husband was quite tall, too. All the Holmeses are tall. But don’t bother with coats and boots and such, that we can manage quite well, I think."

John was hesitating.

"My apologies, Captain Watson," she said gently. "I forget that while I may have to be quite firm with Sherlock, you are my guest. May I invite you to Riddleston Hall? Country air, peace, quiet, good walks, wholesome country food. I would love to have you as my guest. Please say yes."

"Yes," John stammered as if in a dream.

Lady Holmes retrieved her handbag. "Lovely. I hoped you would. Sherlock, help Captain Watson with his things, can’t you see his leg troubles him? I hope you don’t mind me saying so."

* * *

John had followed Sherlock back to his bedroom (formerly Sherlock’s). He did not recognize anything in it. Sherlock pulled out an old duffle bag and pointed to the bureau.

"Your things are in there," he said. John nodded.

"Is it all right?" John asked hesitantly.

"Is what all right?"

"My coming home . . . with you. And your mother. You didn’t tell me you were expected home. I don’t want to be any . . . trouble. I can stay here, I’ll be fine," he said proudly. He was starting to have an inkling that he was an enormous trouble to Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t want to be a burden to anyone.

Sherlock was silent a moment. "Don’t be . . . don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re welcome, I want you — I want you to come. You aren’t any trouble, stop saying that." Sherlock said. "I generally try to avoid these annual trips. But I’m overdue. I suppose it can’t be helped," he sighed.

"Really?" John was amazed. John had lost his parents at relatively young age but had been very close to both, and could not imagine not wanting to see them if he could. He wanted to tell Sherlock how lucky he was to have his mother, a mother that wanted to try and help him, but he thought that would be far too . . . personal. For a mere flatmate. So far, Sherlock had said nothing about his family.

"So, how long has it been? Since you’ve been home?"

"It’s not home. I was raised in Kent. Mostly. Riddleston Hall is my mother’s family’s estate. She goes there this time, every year."

John was done with packing his duffle bag. He pulled down a bedraggled green hooded army jacket with scruffy beige fur around the hood, just in case the promised coats should not materialize. He fingered it thoughtfully. Then he shrugged it on, not noticing Sherlock’s strained expression.

"Where is this Riddleston Hall, then?" John asked curiously as they closed his bedroom door.

"Yorkshire. We’re going to Yorkshire," Sherlock said slowly. "Please leave that jacket, Watson. I assure you we have far more . . .suitable ones at the Hall."

"Fine," John struggled out of it, wincing at the pain in his stomach. Sherlock hastened to help him the rest of the way out of it, and threw it in a corner as though it burned.

* * *

Lady Holmes was efficiently sorting piles of mail that Sherlock had let stack in precarious columns on the mantlepiece.

"I shall send Rigby to sort this whilst we are away," she declared. Sherlock looked mutinous but she held out her hand, implacable. "The key, if you please, Sherlock." Sherlock handed over the key to 221b.

"Now, I’ve got a hamper in the car if you’re really hungry. Tea and biscuits won’t put flesh back on those bones," she sniffed. They departed 221b and Lady Holmes took care to turn the key in the lock. Just in case Sherlock had tried one of his little tricks.

She paused to speak sternly to the foreman of the construction project in 223.

"Young man. We shall be gone for thirty days. If I return to find this – disgraceful racket is still going on, you shall have me to deal with. Do I make my self clear?"

The young man gulped and literally doffed his cap. "Yes, ma’am, clear as glass. It’ll be ever so quiet when you come back," he swore, quivering.

Sherlock and John meekly followed Lady Holmes’ haughty progress back to the Royce and climbed in. Lady Holmes’ driver, Edgar, navigated the Royce smoothly through the bustle of London traffic.

Sherlock surreptitiously watched John’s face as he stared at the passing sights of London, and then as John almost immediately fell asleep again to the motion of the gliding car.

And Lady Holmes watched Sherlock watching John, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.

To be continued . . . .


	3. Riddleston Hall.

You fell down of course

and then you got up of course

and you started over

forgot my name of course

then you started to remember

pretty tough to think about

the beginning of December

pretty tough to think about . . .

Lyrics to "The Same Boy You've Always Known," All Rights Reserved The White Stripes

 

 

Riddleston Hall was a somber Palladian manse of grey Yorkshire stone, walled and gated, approached through a long alley of massive elms. The wrought iron gates were adorned with the sweeping letter "C" for the Cholmondeleys (pronounced "Chumley"), Lady Holmes' family. The Hall was set in a large park overlooking a river. In the distance sheep could be seen grazing the checkerboard hills.

It was early autumn, fine sunny weather in London, but so far north, the warmer days were on the brink of giving way to the cold and dark. John was quietly astonished as they pulled up the swept gravel drive before huge double doors thrown open wide for the mistress's arrival. Edgar hurried to help another servant with Lady Holmes' luggage (Goyard) and John's ragged duffle, which was conveyed into the house with as much care and respect as if it had been one of Lady Holmes' own bags.

Sherlock seemed quite nervous and John could not help be influenced by his anxious demeanor. He was apprehensive about something, John thought. He wondered what it might be. Some family trouble, probably. Evidently, Holmes had been neglecting his family duties.

Lady Holmes kept up a steady stream of light, amusing talk as they entered the huge doors and into the entrance hall. She started to explain to John that the room was architecturally significant for some reason, but Sherlock rather rudely interrupted.

"Yes, yes, Mother, may we have the grand tour another time. I should like to have a private word, if you please," he burst out impatiently. Lady Holmes ignored his boorishness and turned a serene smile upon John.

"Captain Watson. Please forgive my son. No doubt you are well acquainted with his utter lack of manners. My fault entirely, I suppose. Well. McLeod here will show you to your room -- the green room, I think, McLeod. Please make yourself comfortable. I'll have tea sent up directly. Drinks at seven and dinner at eight. We don't dress, please don't trouble yourself."

"Thank you kindly, Lady Holmes. I look forward to it." He had a strong urge to kiss her hand but figured that would be a gross breach of etiquette.

McLeod was a tall, sturdy and cheerful-faced housekeeper, in fact Lady Holmes' head housekeeper. John followed her plain grey dress and sturdy black shoes through a maze of corridors lined with obviously rare antiques and gilt-framed oil paintings. He was no judge of these things, but even he could see that this was not a family that had been forced to sell off the silver to keep the roof in repair.

After what seemed a mile of corridors and a flight of stairs, John was tired. His leg throbbed and his abdominal scars burned. He was actually winded. He hadn't walked so far in he couldn't remember how long. He felt a flash of bitterness.

Because your memory's shot, Watson, old boy, he said to himself.

* * *

The green room was exactly as described, a large room with french doors opening to a small stone balcony, furnished with matching wall coverings, bed coverings, and draperies all in an emerald green damask. There was a fireplace here but it was not lit. The french doors had been thrown open to the fine afternoon air. John wondered how Lady Holmes had the foresight to prepare this room for him.

McLaod regarded John with dismay. "You poor dear, look at you, you’re all done in! I’m terribly sorry, sir, you might have said something, I get to tearing down these halls meself – the Holmeses being all so very impatient, you know, dashing up and down; well, excepting Mr. Mycroft, you know," she clucked, inspecting the massive bed and pulling back the heavy bed curtains so that John might lie down if he chose.

John reddened with embarrassment and tried not to lean so hard on his cane. His face was beaded with perspiration. Mycroft? No, he didn’t know, actually. He tried to summon forth a visual of this Mycroft but of course, there was nothing but the blasted white empty space there.

"Ah, really, it’s — fine. I’ve just been . . .just been out of hospital, is all," he tried to say casually, but caught himself with a little tremor to his voice, so he shut up.

McLeod positively bustled with motherly concern. She pushed him back onto the mattress with her strong hands and forearms – the woman could be a professional wrestler, John thought with awe. She took away his cane and leaned it against the nightstand.

"Now, my fine lad, time for a good lie-down. Tea will be up shortly but you should catch a wink or two," she declared, her eyes bright with determination. He imagined if he tried to get up she would just wrestle him back down again, a contest he would lose in his pathetic state.

He stayed put.

"Right then," he said. "I’ll just be having a lie down, take your time with the tea."

McLeod closed the door softly behind her and he could hear her rapid, purposeful steps retreating down the hall, then silence.

He stared at the pattern of the damask canopy overhead. Truthfully he could almost fall asleep again. There was a sound of birds, and possibly crickets, drifting in from the open window. The air was fresh. The bed was amazingly comfortable.

But he was heartily sick of sleeping.

In the hospital, everyone constantly was ordering him to get some rest, get some sleep. If he didn’t cooperate, pills were administered. Dr. Nazimi kept up the same patter — get your rest, catch up on your sleep. And now, McLeod.

He wanted to scream with frustration.

The only person who didn’t do this was Holmes. Holmes did not disturb him if he did doze off – which he was prone to do at unexpected times – but never tried to suggest that he would be better off sleeping, either. John had been noticing that Holmes never appeared to sleep, himself. Or probably he did; but so far, John had never caught him at it.

My flatmate’s a bloody vampire, he giggled to himself. He didn’t know why he thought that was funny. Holmes’s pale, almost wasted form was nothing to laugh at.

In fact he had caught himself often gazing after the man’s tall form with – curiousity? fascination? Whatever it was, John always tried to stop before Holmes caught him staring like a lunatic – but you couldn’t catch Holmes out, that much he had learned and learned quickly. There wasn’t anything that Holmes didn’t observe, classify, and catalogue in the appropriate place in his restless, brilliant brain.

He knew, though, that while Holmes might not sleep, he was disturbed by John’s constant nightmares. When John woke in a cold sweat, gasping and sometimes even calling out, shouting, flailing against the tangled sheets, his eyes always opened to find Holmes’s silhouette in his doorway. He felt guilty knowing his weakness was probably ruining any chance of rest the man ever got himself, and he looked like he desperately needed it. The circles under Holmes’s eyes looked like they had been made with purplish paint.

John took sleeping pills now mainly because he didn’t want to be such a bother to Holmes. Whether he took them or not, though, the nightmares came.

And so, with these interesting musings to occupy his thoughts, John stayed awake in this luxurious bed, studying the elaborate bedcurtains, his eyes mindlessly following the endlessly repeating pattern of the damask.

* * *

Lady Holmes led Sherlock into the conservatory, where she attended to her collection of world-class exotic orchids and other rare plant specimens. Her former husband, the late Lord Anthony Delamere Holmes, had been an ethnobotanist of international repute.

Sherlock had been just nine years old when his father vanished on an expedition in the rainforests of Borneo. Lady Holmes knew perfectly well that he was dead. She also knew that Sherlock, and to a lesser degree Mycroft, in some ways never stopped expecting him to return, though neither would admit it.

Sherlock paced restlessly while Lady Holmes worked quietly. For a few minutes the only sound was from the tinkling of a small fountain.

"Grammanginis Spectabilis is doing nicely," she said approvingly, examining an exquisite orchid with greenish brown speckled petals and brilliant purplish-pink lips. "Don’t hover, Sherlock," she said firmly. He stopped hovering and dropped to one of the wrought iron benches. Lady Holmes sat beside him and took his hand gently.

"Sherlock, my dear. I’ve been so very distressed over this business with you and Captain Watson. Mycroft told me everything, of course. Not at first, of course, but I persuaded him."

Mycroft likely hadn’t needed much persuading, Sherlock thought. He had always been so easily guided by their mother. Not so Sherlock.

"How could you do something so rash, so very, very, dangerous, as to go into Afghanistan?"

"If you’ve spoken to Mycroft, and he told you everything, then you know why."

"But couldn’t you have kept Captain Watson at home? If only you had —"

"Don’t dare say it, Mother. Don’t dare say that if I had kept him at home, none of this would have happened. Do you think I don’t know that? No one could have stopped him, I assure you. God, you never used to be so — unobservant," he said bitterly.

"Sherlock, I know Captain Watson had a very – noble — reason to return to Afghanistan. And you, too, Sherlock, to go with him. No one has ever questioned your nerve," she said.

"Noble!" Sherlock snorted. "God, Mother, doesn’t anybody understand anything? John, yes, of course, he is noble down to the bones. Me, I had a different motive altogether," he said despairingly. He did not try to remove his hand from hers, and she stroked it gently. She turned the palm over and observed the pink line of a scar across it, as though someone had deliberately cut it with a sharp blade.

"Why must you always be so very hard on yourself, Sherlock? Whatever you mean, it’s nonsense, only nonsense, you know. Of course your motive was noble. You have been very brave, my dear, and I’m proud," she said gently.

Now she put her arm around his shoulder, slowly and stealthily, in case he should spring away as he usually did. He bowed his head.

"No, it wasn’t, Mother. It was selfish. In the end I went there because I was afraid. Afraid of John leaving me, afraid of John never coming back to me. Afraid of — living without him. I can’t, you know."

"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered. "It will be all right, you'll see. He hasn’t left you -- and you did save him, in the end. Mycroft told me what happened."

"Don’t you see, he has left me. He doesn’t know me, and it’s becoming rather obvious that at some level deep inside he doesn’t want to know me – not like that, not any more. Every day I wake up and think, this will be the day. This will be the day. And it never is."

"Sherlock, listen to me. You are so like your father. So impatient with the world. Always, the world has to bend to your expectations, everything according to your own time. Captain Watson is very, very ill. But give him time, give him his own time, darling, and don’t give up. He’ll come back to you, in the end. I know it."

"How do you know," Sherlock mumbled.

"Because, Sherlock, I understand the human heart much better than you do. You’re quite ignorant that way. No, don’t say anything, Mycroft isn’t any better really. Anyway, Captain Watson may not remember you, but he loves you."

Sherlock gave a choked snort, which might have been a suppressed sob. "Don’t be ridiculous, Mother. You’ve spent less than a day in his company and he slept all the way in the car. You can’t know that."

"I knew instantly that your father was in love with me from the very first moment he laid eyes on me -- even though we didn’t meet for another year after that. But I knew. Later, he told me. But I always knew. I know these things, Sherlock. In some ways you are still very young, you know."

"Just don't say anything to John.  Please.  Let it come from him. Do you understand?"

She nodded and patted his hand. "If you insist, Sherlock. I happen to think you are very wrong, but I understand."

Sherlock reached over and kissed her cheek lightly with his cold lips. "I’m sorry, Mother," he said, and stood to go.

"Whatever for?"

"For everything," he said, and he left her alone with the rare plants his father had brought from exotic lands, years before Sherlock was born.

To be continued . . .


	4. The Fire.

Lady Holmes enjoyed a traditional cocktail hour in the library before dinner.

Although it was true that Lady Holmes did not require that her guests "dress," it was certainly expected that they would be presentable. Lady Holmes could not fail to note with disapproval Sherlock's thin frame and how unattractively his clothing hung upon him. She therefore tactfully laid out a few of Sherlock's old shirts and trousers from his Cambridge days. The Holmes men always had their tailoring done in Saville Row; Sherlock’s tailor was Anderson & Barrie, whose clientele included Prince Philip, Valentino, and Brian Ferry.

Sherlock was infuriated at first but soon realized that, as in other things, Lady Holmes was right. He hesitated amongst the shirts. One of the more flamboyant ones caught his eye. It was a rich blue-green color. He remembered the bespoke robe (that he regretted leaving behind in 221b in the rush to obey Lady Holmes), the teal-colored silk one that he had deliberately had made up in an effort to seduce John, during those first months. It had worked rather well, but he hadn’t found that out until later. John’s self-discipline had been remarkable. But Sherlock had broken it, all the same.

The bittersweet memory emboldened him. Should he wear this color? Or was he torturing himself needlessly, trying at every turn to spark a memory in John?

He considered the problem from all angles.

* * *

In the next room, John was looking over his meagre clothing, never very smart in the best of times, and which were all simply too large now. They made him look rather frail, he thought.  Even childish.  He frowned.  Just the impression I want to make on Lady Holmes, he thought hopelessly.  Not to mention Holmes himself. After several moments in which he stood frozen in place, too discouraged to finish dressing, he caught himself thinking more of Holmes than Lady Holmes.

This was irritating.

The man had somehow transformed in the past 24 hours from a bedraggled scarecrow to an urbanely polished aristocrat. It completely unfair, really infuriating, John fumed, regarding his pathetic garments with resignation. There was a knock on the door.

"Captain Watson, I’ve brought you something," McLeod’s brisk voice came through the door. He opened it for her. McLeod had clearly anticipated John’s dilemma, as she had personally unpacked his duffle for him and folded everything away. She thought she had not seen such shabby apparel in quite some time. John was standing in his perfectly plain khaki trousers and a white undershirt, looking both lost and aggravated. McLeod dropped a large stack of clothing on the bed.

"You’ll be late for your cocktails, Captain Watson, you might want to shift yourself a mite. Don’t just hang about, then, my dear. You’re not planning on going down like that, sir? If you don’t mind me saying, you could stand to brush yourself up a bit. Just because you’ve been ill doesn’t mean you don’t want to put your best foot forward, now, does it? I thought not. And the Holmeses are always so elegant, if I do say so. I brought you a few things. They belong to one of the cousins, don’t recall which exactly. Why not try these trousers, sir. Any why not that nice grey jumper you brought. It’s getting cooler tonight. I think it would suit you very well, sir."

"Thank you," John stammered. The woman was a bloody mind-reader. Nor did it appear she was going to leave him until she judged he was fit to be seen by their Royal Highnesses, the Holmeses. He sighed and pulled on some black trousers. They actually fit rather well, but he didn’t see the grey jumper.

"Your own jumper, Captain Watson, you know: that nice new grey one. The Barbour. Mr. Holmes is partial to Barbour, too."

John frowned. He didn’t remember – but that didn’t mean anything. A gift from Harry, probably. He rummaged in the chest of drawers and found a perfectly new, very expensive looking grey jumper, and pulled it on.

McLeod beamed at him. She tugged here and there at the trousers and sweater and fussed a little with his hair.

"You’ll do, Captain Watson," she allowed finally, "come along, I’ll show you to the library," she said.

As he went to follow her out, a stabbing pain throbbed in his head. "Just wait a moment, will you, please," he said. Making sure McLeod didn’t see, he grabbed one of his pain pills and swallowed it. Then he took a second one for good measure.

They weren’t helping like they should.

* * *

Cocktails were in the library, a vast, traditional room filled with thousands of rare volumes, many collected by Lady Holmes’ departed husband. Hunting prints lined the walls; Lady Holmes was a recognized breeder of champion warmblood hunter jumpers.

John was starting in on his first scotch (Laphroiag) and becoming acquainted with James Bateman, the estate manager of Riddleston Hall. Bateman was a former Army sergeant and was regaling John with humorous stories of his mates' exploits. Sherlock entered the library and stopped in the doorway.

John was actually smiling. He looked. . . happy. He searched John’s face for any sign of a change, that his memory was somehow coming back, but John gave no sign.

Lady Holmes handed Sherlock his drink and John looked up. He abruptly stopped in the middle of a complicated story about a prank the boys had played on one of their sergeants in Para training, just gaping at Sherlock. Who was looking even more smashing than earlier today at the flat, when he had returned looking quietly devastating with a fresh haircut and shave despite his underlying exhaustion. The exotic color of his shirt brought out his blue eyes vividly and did intriguing things for his alabaster complexion. Sherlock noted John’s undisguised attention and John could swear he actually preened, just a little, before studiously ignoring John and examining the volumes in the bookcases.

Lady Holmes had quietly put it about that Captain Watson was a war hero who had suffered a mysterious brain injury and that he was to be treated with the greatest respect and gentleness.

As such, everyone thought John was having some sort of attack, and politely turned to chatter about tomorrow’s hunt.

John took a hard swallow of his drink and tried to pull himself together. What the hell is happening to me? He wondered.

Possibly the second pill had been a bad idea.

* * *

Dinner was a traditional Yorkshire feast, accompanied by fine old French burgundy.  There was excellent roast beef and lamb, farm grown vegetables ("Our own, you know, Captain Watson--  please have more," Lady Holmes urged).  Then there was Yorkshire pudding, Wensleydale cheese and nuts, an elaborate chocolate cake with little glasses of port.

"Especially for you, Sherlock, I know how you love your chocolate," Lady Holmes declared.  She smiled as Sherlock accepted a large slice.

John could not suppress an expression of extreme amazement. Another of his flatmate’s fundamentally inhuman characteristics was his marked lack of appetite. He had seen Sherlock eat mainly when he kept John company for endless hours in hospital; but he had suspected Sherlock was eating the horrid fare only to encourage John to eat himself, during the long weeks that his stomach had been painful and delicate.

After dinner they took their port to the billard room, where Sherlock played like a shark and John covered himself with shame by making a complete fool of himself, to everyone’s general amusement. After two scotches, two glasses of burgundy, and several of port, John was feeling warm and fuzzy. He didn’t care if he looked a fool at billiards as long as he could watch Sherlock’s interesting form bent over the table in concentration.

Finally Lady Holmes suggested it was time for everyone to turn in after a long day of travel.

"Don’t forget the hunt, Sherlock, bright and early. You won’t go dashing off about the estate, will you? Please recall that I have you in as Field Master of the first field tomorrow, Sherlock."

"Of course, Mother, I do remember."

"And you do recollect what I asked you about picking up Henrietta?"

"Of course."

"Because I think a country drive would suit you and Captain Watson quite well. Henrietta will arrive in Harrogate at six o’clock."

"Who’s Henrietta?" John asked, hoping he wasn’t slurring his words. He was really feeling quite high now. Everyone was looking at him as though he was making perfect sense, though, so maybe it was all right. On the other hand, maybe it was just good breeding.

"Henrietta is my dear Fredericka’s daughter. Fredericka was my personal maid my whole married life until she retired 10 years ago. She passed away two months ago. She was living in the dower cottage, you know. We still had tea together whenever I came up from London. Fredericka was . . ." Lady Holmes paused and John was dismayed to see she had a tear in her eye. But then she recovered herself, and continued, "a very special woman. I have never met her daughter.

"It is a very sad story, really. She had Henrietta when she was just a young girl on a farm near here. Her family made her give the baby up to a distant aunt in Scotland. After my mother took Fredericka in to train, she never told anyone she had a child. She never even told me until the year before she died, poor dear. She still kept to the old taboos, having a child out of wedlock was a terrible shame, and a sin.

"After she passed away, I naturally invited Henrietta to come to Riddleston and stay, and collect any of her mother’s things she desired."

"Watson and I will drive up to Harrogate tomorrow, Mother, never fear," Sherlock promised.

"How will we know her?"

"I have a quite recent photograph of her from Fredericka – see me tomorrow before you leave. I wouldn’t want you to miss each other in the train station," she said.

Everyone said their good nights to Lady Holmes. "Thank you for a wonderful evening, Lady Holmes," John said gallantly. John did kiss her hand, this time, and she accepted it as no less her due.

"Sherlock, see Captain Watson back up to the green room. I don’t want him to get lost," Lady Holmes said to Sherlock quietly.

* * *

John felt Holmes' hard arm holding him up while trying to open the door to the green room at the same time. He knew Holmes had an injured shoulder, but hadn't asked why. Stupid, John thought, get out of your self-pitying fog, why don't you, you git. He felt giddy.

Holmes' face was very serious; although from this angle it was half hidden with that maddening fall of dark hair. Suddenly it hit him in a rush.

He wanted to kiss his flatmate.

With the clarity of fine burgundy and scotch firing his veins, he had a revelation. He had been wanting, no, needing, to kiss his flatmate for days now.

For ages, probably.

He used to be fairly bold about such things, generally: he did remember that much. His long term memory was perfectly intact. He remembered the boys back in Helmand, too: "You're our hero, Hotson!" Exploits with the ladies. Men, too, on occasion, but quietly so as not to start unwelcome talk in the ranks.

But regardless of his modestly formidable reputation, John was absolutely certain he would never, ever have had the nerve even to touch something so beautiful, so fine. So dangerous.

He would never have forgotten that.

Holmes got the door open and John just made his move, grabbing fistfuls of that shirt and pulling his mouth down, down to his, and just devouring those lips that he hadn't been able to stop staring at all night. For days and days, actually.

And was amazed when Holmes just let him, trembling.

The world just stopped. He had never felt anything so incredibly hot. Ever. He made it deeper, harder. He was never going to stop. Then everything was spinning, and not in a good way, and his legs buckled. 

Bit not good.

Holmes gently unwound John's fingers from his shirt and put him to into bed.

"You're very drunk, Watson. And. . . you've taken some of your pills." John couldn't keep his eyes open because the entire bed canopy was rotating. With his eyes closed he couldn't see Sherlock, but he could hear the tremor in his voice. "Sleep it off."

John was half out now, but with the last of his consciousness it was very important that he move.

He flopped over onto his stomach in an effort to hide his erection.

Of course bloody man saw everything, absolutely everything. God, this was humiliating. The most humiliating moment ever. He was an utter ass. Holmes was mortified, he could tell. He was never taking another drink as long as he lived.

And he was never, ever coming back out of this room. He wondered if McLeod could just bring him trays of food and tea indefinitely. He would just stay hidden in this cocoon of green damask. Forever.

Holmes was leaving. Of course. He felt an urge to snatch back some honour, and so he called after him:

"You got off easy, you know. And -- call me John," he slurred with bravado, his face smushed against the deep down pillows. He gripped the side of the mattress, either to prevent himself from falling on the floor, or to stop himself trying to go for round two with Holmes before he got away.

"Good night, John," Holmes said gravely. If he was laughing, he was hiding it well. Well, he would, wouldn't he?

He never had seen the man laugh, ever.

* * *

The next morning John turned the bolt in the door and ignored the bustling noises up and down the halls. His head was bursting. He lay back in bed, nauseous and humiliated. He remembered everything about last night. He remembered Holmes’ lips burning against his. He remembered Holmes’ polite but rapid retreat. Why couldn’t he forget this, like he had forgotten everything else, for God’s sake?

McLeod did eventually come with a tray and he took it from her swiftly and closed the door on her before she could start forcing him to get dressed and come down.

There was quite a racket downstairs. There were what sounded like hundreds of dogs howling and whining, horses snorting and whinnying, people chattering and laughing. He remembered Lady Holmes talking about the hunt. Something about Holmes being the Field Master. Whatever that was. John’s own experiences with horses were limited to his summers at his uncle’s farm in Sussex. Fox hunting was not part of the Watsons’ world.

There was a determined knock at his door. He ignored it. Possibly everyone would think he was resting. Or ill. Or rude. But he simply wasn’t going down. He was never going to be able to face Sherlock Holmes, ever again.

The knocking continued, harder.

Finally he opened it after McLeod made it clear she wasn’t leaving.

"I’m sorry, Captain Watson, really I am. I understand you may be a little peaky this morning. But the hunt’s waiting."

"Look, McLeod, I don’t – hunt. Please let them carry on without me. I’m staying in today."

"You don’t understand," she said urgently, "Mister Sherlock refuses to start the hunt until you come down. And he’s Field Master. No one can start the hunt until he says. They’re all waiting."

"Tell Mr. Holmes I am indisposed."

"Well, begging your pardon, Captain Watson, I did try. I suppose you aren’t used to drinking after hospital, and you’re still rather ill, aren’t you, dear? Come down and have some tea. Mister Sherlock insists, sir. Please don’t make a scene, sir, come down, there’s a good lad," she said.

Now she was holding up some attire from the pile she had brought in last night. It was some riding breeches, shirt, and a hunt coat. She went out into the hall and came back with high black boots.

"Lady Holmes always has lots of riding gear on offer, so many visit for the hunt season," she said. "You don’t want to go down there without them."

She waited outside while he dressed then helped him with the shirt. "You look very smart, sir." McLeod beamed at him.

John was miserable and thought it quite likely that people might laugh at him in the riding attire. But it looked like he didn’t have a choice. He stopped in the bathroom to splash his face with cold water and smooth his hair and followed McLeod down to the gravel drive.

* * *

It was like a nightmare, John decided.

There were approximately fifty or so riders in the hunt, all mounted and milling around, talking amongst themselves. The hounds circled and whined restlessly.

Everyone was watching and waiting impatiently for Sherlock, who was not mounted. He was standing on drive near a table set with carafes of hot tea, coffee, and fruit for the riders. He paid no notice whatsoever to the impatient and increasingly annoyed glances from the other riders.

Everyone turned to stare, to watch John join them.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said seriously. As though they didn’t have an audience. As though they were in 221b.

Now John remembered telling Sherlock to call him John instead of Watson. Last night. God. That meant he remembered. John turned away and tried to shrink into the background.

"Good morning," he managed. Sherlock looked devastating in pale breeches, red hunting jacket, and black boots. John could barely look at him, but he thought he had never seen anything so magnificent in his entire life. Sherlock gave no other sign of remembering last night. _Thank God,_ John said fervently to himself. _Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, him calling me ‘John,’_ he thought hopefully.

Sherlock handed John a steaming mug of tea.

"You ride, John, I believe," Sherlock said cooly. John’s heart was thundering in his chest but this made it skip an extra beat.

 _Please, God, not that, anything but that_. Did he remember after all? Was this Sherlock’s peculiar brand of revenge for John’s indiscretion of last night?

"Not like this, no. More like . . . ponies, farm horses, not like hunters, I don’t jump . . ." he faltered.

Sherlock said, "Fine. Stubbins," to the man next to him in riding gear, holding a fearsome and restless black hunter that had to be at least 18 hands, "Captain Watson will ride with you an hour daily. Figaro, I think. I believe Captain Watson and I will be riding a great deal while we are here. That’s all right, John?" Sherlock said casually.

John realized it was. "Yes, thanks very much," he agreed, and Sherlock turned away abruptly and climbed the mounting block to gracefully spring into the saddle of the black horse. He took the reins.  "Mephisto," Sherlock said, patting its neck in his black gloves. The horse settled immediately.

Everyone stopped watching and started chattering again, eager to start. The hounds sensed that it was time and started baying.

Sherlock urged the great horse forward and just as abruptly reined it in. Very loudly, yet respectfully, he called out to John.

"Captain Watson, I left my crop. Could I trouble you to bring it. Please."

Everyone fell silent again to stare at Sherlock and John. John felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair. He turned to find the crop, lying against a folding chair. He took it up.

It felt very good in his hand.

He approached Sherlock, looking up to him in the saddle. Sherlock looked down intently. John held the crop up.

As though he had all the time in the world and no one was watching at all, Sherlock deliberately removed his glove, finger by finger, and extended his pale palm, face up, down to John.

And that was the precise moment that John was struck by the thunderbolt. Straight through the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

He was on fire.

He was in love.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

God help him.

Impossibly, his heart thundered harder, and his mouth became instantly dry. He looked down to conceal his face so that Sherlock couldn’t see. But as he did so, he saw the rather recent red scar across Sherlock’s palm. It looked like it had come from a very sharp blade.

John had many scars now. One of which was a recent red scar, as if from a sharp blade. Across his palm. He felt a shiver.

He looked up now and without hesitating struck the crop with a sharp slap across Sherlock’s open palm. Possibly a little harder than he meant to. Possibly not.

He thought he saw Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed for just a moment. He wasn’t sure.

 _I must be dreaming_ , John thought. _This isn’t happening._

There was a buzzing as everyone started whispering.

"People are talking," John said in a low voice.

"They will do little else," Sherlock said. His eyes burned into John’s as though looking for something there. John kept his face impassive, because he didn’t know what this was about, he didn’t know what to do, all he knew was that he couldn’t let Sherlock see.

Sherlock nodded, just once, and whipped Mephisto forward.

The hunt was on. The hounds surged forward across the park. John watched them go, but Sherlock didn’t look back. Soon all of the riders were gone. He turned to go back into the house. Lady Holmes was watching him.

"That’s the spirit," she said and took his arm into the house.

* * *

The hounds furiously chased the scent trail left the night before; real foxes were no longer in use in British foxhunting. Sherlock, the Field Master, led the way, Mephisto taking each fence like an angel, until a large part of the pack became distracted and broke off from the others. Sherlock hesitated, there were others responsible for the hounds; but something made him want to see.

The hounds were swarming under a huge old yew tree, baying and wailing. Sherlock pulled Mephisto up. And then felt a cold chill as he saw what the hounds were worrying.

Emerging from below a pile of twigs and leaves, was a human hand.

* * *

Sherlock waived everyone off and knelt beside the body. He gently moved one of the branches and looked at the face of the corpse.

It was a middle-aged woman, her waxen face as though in sleep.

Except for the spray of blood marring her regular features, painting her pearl necklace red.

He felt his heart sink. He recognized this face.

He pulled out his mobile.

"Mother, it’s Sherlock. No, I’m not coming back just yet. I’m afraid I have some rather shocking news. No, I’m perfectly all right. Of course Mephisto is all right, he’s in fine form. Please find Captain Watson. Can you drive the car out to Rexworth Park? No, I can’t tell you over the phone. Please bring Captain Watson at once., do you hear? I’ll tell you everything when you get here."

The next call he made was to local CID.

There was no question of this being a natural death.

Not with the shotgun blast in the middle of the poor woman’s chest.

To be continued . . .


	5. Falling Together.

I'm going backwards through time at the speed of light

I'm yours, you're mine

Two satellites

Not alone

Lyrics to Indestructible, All Rights Reserved Robyn

Lady Holmes and John arrived in the estate car, driven by Edgar, to John's mortification. He had of course offered to drive, but Lady Holmes had looked into his face and very sweetly said, "You're my guest, Captain Watson, and I want you to be comfortable. Anyway, you don't know the way and it's been some time since I've been out to Rexworth Park myself."  
The truth was that today, John's stomach was a painful wreck; being a doctor and having done hundreds of abdominal surgeries on soldiers who had been blown apart much as John had, he knew that the patchwork of his torn flesh which the doctors at Bagram had stitched back together with the greatest of care, might never completely heal properly. He tried to ignore the burning, stabbing pains and realized it was just as well he didn't get behind the wheel. So it was that John and Lady Holmes were delivered to the crime scene.

There was already crime scene tape around the body, marking the boundary between the living world and the dead. Sherlock hastened to greet them. He held his mother's hands in his own.

"Mother, I'm afraid it's very bad news. I found a . . . body, the dogs did, actually. I don't know how to tell you this, Mother, but unless I am very mistaken, the woman is Henrietta Trimble. Fredericka's daughter."

Lady Holmes took a deep breath and squeezed Sherlock's hands, but remained composed. After all, there were already many people watching; riders from the hunt were hanging back, trying to discreetly get a glimpse of the corpse; SOCOs combing the leaves for traces and snapping photographs. Television vans could be seen in the distance. They had no leave to enter the grounds of Rexworth Park, however. One could see photographers climbing up, trying to get a shot with their zoom lenses.

"Are you quite sure, Sherlock? Thank God dear Fredericka isn't alive to see it."

He nodded grimly. "She looks very like the photograph. I didn't want you to hear on the telly or from the neighbors; Reggie Rexworth already reported it to CID early this morning before the hunt set out. Apparently. The news trucks are already here."

"But, weren't we supposed to go pick her up at the train station tonight?" John asked before he could stop himself. He had been so drunk last night that he probably had it wrong.

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed. Now that he had seen that Lady Holmes was going to be all right, his face was radiant with excitement. John was fascinated and looked away to stop himself simply mooning like a lovesick cow. Or sheep or whatever barn animal fit the bill in these parts, he thought ruefully.

"Well, then, what is the woman doing here?" John looked around, it was a good excuse to not look at Sherlock. "It's woods for miles in any direction; the road is maybe a half-mile. Anyway," John ventured, "why exactly did you want me here?" John realized that he had been calmly accepting having been summoned to the scene of a murder by his flatmate as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Did I generally let him boss me about like this? He wondered. If so, he needed to get a grip here, show him he wasn't to be just ordered about. Quite the contrary, he thought fiercely, then pushed away those sorts of thoughts all together. I must be utterly mad, he thought.

Sherlock had a gleam in his eye as he regarded John closely. Either this will be the thing that brings him back, Sherlock thought, or I've made a massive mistake and he's going to be very ill and it will all be my fault and I'll never forgive myself. He remembered every discouraging word of Dr. Nazimi's advice -- not to involve John in cases, to let him recover from the shocks of Afghanistan. Peace and quiet.

And then there was last night. He couldn't stop thinking about John's lips burning passionately into his, a kiss that had taken everything Sherlock had to stop. Not to stop John. To stop himself. And he had lain awake all night, alone, in the next room to John's sleeping form, unable to do anything but think about it and exercise all of his considerable self control not to go back to John's room and tell him everything.

Or maybe he wanted to say nothing at all but to just beg him for more.

Because he wanted John all the way, everything: not a drunken impulse, or a passing amusement, or worse, out of some sort of noble . . .misplaced gratitude for Sherlock's care, for Sherlock having saved his life. And last night, drunk though he was, sick though he undoubtedly still was, Sherlock had felt that core of strength, of steeliness in John's body as he held him in his arms. A strength that made Sherlock bend to it. It made him want to lay himself open to that core and feel the burning.

* * *

Sherlock returned his attention with some difficulty to the matter at hand. The matter he could possibly do something about. The corpse.

Finding a body, the very day after they arrived in Yorkshire . . . Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences per se. He believed in opportunities. And this one was simply too good to be missed.

John saw him smirk, just a little.

And I don't make mistakes, Sherlock assured himself.

"John, you're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor. You've seen a lot of . . . gunshot injuries, in your day. Yes?"

John nodded. Certainly that was true. As far as it went.

"Come and look at the body, then. And tell me what you think." His eyes were positively sparkling with excitement, as though he were proposing a marvelous trip, or the most amusing game ever. Evidently, to Sherlock Holmes, it was.

John didn't even hesitate. If he could be even tangentially involved in anything that made Sherlock Holmes' face light up like that, he was all over it.

* * *

The SOCOs made a fuss, but they were local lads, not used to murder scenes.

Sherlock quickly overpowered them, announcing with excessive theatricality (to John's mind, even allowing that John was highly prejudiced in Holmes' favor):

"I am a consultant to Scotland Yard. Possibly you have heard of me. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have already been at the scene, I discovered the body. I won't disturb anything. This is my associate Doctor Watson -- He's a doctor, I wish him to examine the body."

One of the SOCO's scoffed, "No point, is there. She's dead," with true Northern bluntness.

Sherlock held up the tape and John went in after him.

* * *

The woman was laid out on the leafy ground. She was wearing a good linen suit, taupe in color; sensible calf pumps in pale beige, a pearl necklace about her throat, coated in dark blood. Her hair was a mess, but her face was peaceful. She was very pale, even for a corpse.

There was a huge, round, open wound in the center of her chest, obviously from a firearm of some sort. John considered.

"A shotgun wound. Large gauge, I should think. But there's something very wrong here."

Sherlock was intent and and moved closer to John, their shoulders brushing. This was very awkward as it gave John shivers to be anywhere close enough to actually touch Sherlock's person. He moved away.

"Good, John. What do you see?"

"There's not enough blood. Not nearly enough blood."

Sherlock clapped his gloved hands together. This made John recall his gesture of this morning, removing the glove to accept the crop. He momentarily forgot they were standing next to a corpse as he was transfixed by Sherlock's hands in their black leather gloves.

"My thoughts precisely. There is some, it has sprayed in this circular pattern here. It has extended to the collarbone, and the neck and chin. But there should be an absolute pool of it under the body."

"And there isn't. She looks to have been dead for hours; long enough that there should be blood pooled under and around the body, probably. Dead up to eight hours I would say, but obviously I can't say for sure --- "

Suddenly his temple was struck with a crippling pain, as though someone were driving an icepick through his skull. The light around Sherlock became brightly colored and then everything became quite fuzzy. He felt the blood draining from his face and felt weak. Sherlock saw him stagger, and cried "John!" and held him up.

John held his hand out to push Sherlock away. He wasn't going to bloody be a burden to him any more. Enough was enough. He stood alone, cold sweat springing out on his forehead, leaning on his cane.

Lady Holmes marched up. She was clearly furious.

"Captain Watson, please come away. Sherlock, I have no idea what you can possibly have been thinking. We are leaving now. Please bring Mephisto home, you've let him get cold. This is a police matter now, I believe."

John thought he probably ought to sit down. He went toward the car. With an effort, he pulled himself up straighter and said with false brightness,

"Lady Holmes, it's quite all right. I just had a drop too many of your very fine Scotch last night. I'm paying for it today. And believe me, you've no idea how many dead bodies I've seen."

Lady Holmes shook her head. "But you are mistaken. I have an exact idea how many dead bodies you've seen, Captain Watson. One too many," she said with a dark look at Sherlock, who was stricken with guilt and dismay at John's state. He even appeared to have momentarily forgotten the body.

A booming voice roared out:

"What in God's Holy Name is going on at my crime scene!! Which of you milk-fed buggers is in charge? Other than me, 'course. I'll have your heads for breakfast, I shit you not," yelled a huge man with the build of a heavyweight boxer and a face to match, barreling through the forest toward the crime tape. He was bald, wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses, and a tweed jacket that looked like it possibly had seen one or two more seasons of crime fighting than it ought.

He had seen Sherlock, John, Lady Holmes and Edgar standing by the estate car, as he approached through the forest. He rolled his eyes behind his shades. The landed gentry. To be handled with kid gloves, per his putative boss. Forelock pulling and all that.

"I am Detective Superintendent Charlie Weller. You're Sherlock Holmes, I take it," he yelled at Sherlock. Everyone stepped back a few steps before the sheer magnitude of his vocals. The man could be heard in Scotland, one imagined. Mephisto shied away and began snorting nervously. Sherlock stroked his flank to soothe him.

Was he deaf, John wondered. He hadn't heard so much yelling since he went to the last Manchester United match. It hurt his splitting head, and he winced.

Sherlock extended his hand and shook with Weller. Sherlock could not conceal a brief wince of his own as Weller's massive paw crushed Sherlock's slender fingers. Sherlock introduced Lady Holmes.

"At your service, ma'am," he said with sudden politeness if not less volume, bending with elaborate courtesy over Lady Holmes' perfunctorily extended hand. It was rather like a rhino suddenly attempting ballet; something unnatural to the order of nature.

Lady Holmes explained that John was her house guest from London, just returned from war in Afghanistan. Weller immediately dropped his harsh scrutiny and his face assumed undisguised respect.

* * *

"I found the body," Sherlock said, and gave a brief, succinct statement to Weller. He mentioned the suspicious lack of blood. An anonymous officer took notes.

"Great Scot!" Weller exclaimed. "You don't say, Mister Science of Deee-duct-ion? Yes, even in backwards Yorkshire we have heard of the great Sherlock Holmes. Not enough blood for the shotgun wound, you say!! I would never have figured that, thank the Lord you're here," he spat sarcastically, waving his hands toward the heavens. "Seeing as there's not a drop of blood on any of the leaves around the body."

Sherlock raised a cynical eyebrow. "I see you know your business, Detective Superintendent. Please call upon me at Riddleston Hall if I can be of further assistance. It seems clear I cannot. Are we free to go?"

Weller waved them off. "Can't be too soon," he yelled amicably as they departed. "My officer will be along later to take a formal statement. Don't leave the area, though, understand?"

He could be heard barking even through the closed windows of the estate car:

"Blast your balls, Tim, you let him behind the tape, you ruddy fool. How many times do I have to tell you, you gormless worm, US, inside the tape. THEM, behind the tape. Are you color blind? You do see the tape?? Should we put you in for disability leave, then, seeing as you are both blind and deaf, not to mention a bloody mental defective. Now do we need to review it again, you shite?"

* * *

John allowed himself to be persuaded to have a liedown in the green room and was able to sleep. He refused to take any more pain pills, though, and his head was still throbbing when he awoke. He had slept through dinner, he realized. He didn't want to call for McLeod. He wondered if he could find the kitchen.

He found his way downstairs to discover everyone else retired for the night. There was a faint clacking sound and he realized Sherlock was awake. He was shooting billiards.

His heart jumped into his throat when he saw him, looking distractingly morose as he wielded the cue. It made John want to hold him until the light came back into his eyes. It made him want to bend him over the billiard table and see if Sherlock would try to stop him.

"Can't sleep?" He asked for lack nerve to say anything truer, like, I love you, I want you now, I need you forever.

"Almost never," Sherlock said. "Fancy a game?"

When sober, John was considerably more skilled at billiards. They played companionably for hours. John had to struggle to maintain his composure, to conceal his overwhelming surge of new feeling for Sherlock. But he was troubled by a certain air of wistfulness in Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed content to stay at it all night.

"I think we should call it a night," John finally said. He was still in pain that he had struggled to conceal. Sherlock looked disappointed. John wondered if Sherlock would really stay up all night. This was a torture to imagine. Sherlock reached to rack the balls and suddenly John could no longer endure the waiting. Waiting for an understanding that was never going to come.

He grabbed Sherlock's wrist. The slender bones moving under the skin made him feel a strange sensation, something between tenderness and lust. He turned Sherlock's hand over and touched the scar with his fingertip.

"How did you get this?"

Sherlock's eyes were wide.

"I did it," he said.

John considered this. He didn't let go of Sherlock's wrist.

"And then . . why do I have the same scar on my palm?"

"Because. . . I asked you to," Sherlock whispered.

John's hand tightened on Sherlock's wrist. Another mystery. He had a million questions. Multiplying endlessly, like a hall of mirrors. So many things he didn't know. And one thing he did know.

The only thing that mattered.

He pulled Sherlock closer to him.

"Did I?"

"You don't remember, John. . ." Somehow, Sherlock seemed more crushed by this than anything else.

"But I did it. . . for you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Blood brothers," he whispered.

"I'm glad. But I don't care anymore about remembering."

"You don't?"

"No, Sherlock. All I care about is now."

This time, when he pulled Sherlock's lips down to his own, Sherlock didn't pull away, and their mouths just melted as one. And the room did spin, but John wasn't going to let go. Ever again. And if John fell, they would fall together. "Don't--" Sherlock gasped. John felt a chill. Was he wrong, after all? Of course he was. This Sherlock Holmes was not for him. He released Sherlock and started to pull away. Sherlock held him tight, though, and wouldn't let him go. " --- don't go easy on me this time, John."

"Ah, it's like that then, is it?" John asked, barely releasing his lips long enough to speak. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want anything to stop this.

"Yes, it's like that. It's always been like that," Sherlock murmured, allowing John to ravish his neck. Finally, incredibly, the kissing wasn't enough, they had been kissing for an hour or more it seemed, and John's body was screaming for more at the same time it was racked with pain. With regret, he whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Then wait for me, love. Until I'm stronger. Do you understand? You'll wait until I say, won't you."

Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder. "I've always been waiting for you, John."

　

To be continued . .

 

(Are ya feelin' me yet, AO3 land?)


	6. Lord Holmes' Skeleton.

I'm sorry baby,

You were the Sun & Moon to me

I'll never get over you, you'll never get over me.

 

Lyrics to Sun and Moon, All Rights Reserved Above & Beyond

 

The next morning McLeod opened the door to the billiard room to give it an airing, and was surprised to find Sherlock sitting upon one of the great leather Knole sofas, wide awake. John was there too, sleeping peacefully across the sofa cushions, his head resting in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock was sitting still as a statue so as not to wake him. He was watching John's sleeping face, and gave the impression that he probably hadn't moved a muscle for hours.

He frowned severely at McLeod and jerked his head in the direction of the door to indicate that she should withdraw. And she did, a pleased smile wreathing her strong, kind features.

Several hours later, John finally stirred. The throbbing in his head was nearly gone. Just a little ache behind his eyes reminded him of the agony of yesterday. But when he opened his eyes he forgot all about pain and instead felt the rush of joy upon seeing Sherlock's serious face bent watchfully over his.

"I'm not dreaming, am I?" He was only half-joking.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not unless I am, too." Sherlock took John's hand. "You need to eat something. You haven't since breakfast yesterday. It's not good for you, John, you need to get stronger."

John grinned a little, remembering what he had said last night.

"You, too, Sherlock. I haven't seen you take a bite since you had that amazing chocolate cake."

"So you were watching me eat chocolate, were you? I shall bear that in mind."

John laughed. "Well you should. It brings very interesting thoughts to my mind."

Sherlock looked both wicked and smug. "Promises, promises, John. Hardly fair, under the circumstances. Come, let's go plague Blessing."

John was very puzzled. Plague blessing? Was his disordered mind even more disordered than he supposed? Was this some arcane Yorkshire religious practice? Was he supposed to know what to do? Sherlock watched the various expressions of puzzlement and mystification pass over John's features. He sighed contentedly.

"Blessing, John, is Riddleston's cook. Finest in the county."

John grinned. " Lead the way, then. I'm famished.". He kissed Sherlock hungrily. "And never fear, if this Blessing made that dinner our first night, I'll be back to fighting strength in no time."

* * *

They padded down seemingly endless halls until they came to the kitchen, a vast, dark Victorian space with long white marble counters, row after row of polished copper pans of every size and shape, and a huge plate cabinet displaying an immense collection of red and white patterned plates. In its day, the kitchen had routinely turned out breakfast, supper, teas, and dinner for the family, its regular retinue of houseguests, and staff of thirty.

Mrs. Blessing was resting with a cup of tea at the scarred old rectory table, having provided a hearty breakfast for the household. A covered bowl of bread dough rising was at Mrs. Blessing's elbow. She was in fact McLeod's cousin, surprisingly tall and angular for a cook; rather than stout like her cousin. But her eyes had the same cheerful, energetic twinkle and she burst into a lovely if toothy smile upon seeing Sherlock and John.

"Mister Sherlock, look at you!". Sherlock embraced her warmly. "You've shrunk to nothing but bones, lad. And who is this handsome gentleman? Is this Captain Watson, then? My husband was a soldier, you know. It's an honor and a pleasure, I'm sure," she said. "Now, you didn't come down just to chat. McLeod told me as you both missed breakfast. London ways, I suppose, although your dear mother is always so particular about a proper breakfast. Now, you must take something, lads."

John was sure she could hear his stomach rumbling. In a flash Mrs. Blessing brought forth hearty slices of ham and egg pie, crispy bacon, fresh scones with jam and clotted cream, a wedge of cheese and a plate of fresh fruit, all washed down with mugs of fragrant hot tea. While she worked she paused to punch down the lump of dough.

"This will be for this afternoon's tea. Lady Holmes is a bit downcast, if you don't mind my saying so, Mister Sherlock. This bread is her favorite, I wanted to do my bit to cheer her up. We heard about poor Fredericka's lass. A terrible shock, no one knows what to think,". She said. "I heard she may have come up early, and got lost on the way to the Hall. And here was a hunting accident, wasn't there?"

"Possibly," Sherlock said. "It appears that may be the explanation. Mrs. Blessing, did Fredericka ever speak to you about her daughter? About Henrietta?"

Mrs. Blessing nodded. "That she did. She made me swear never to tell a soul, she were that ashamed. Not on the lass, you understand. She sent every spare penny of her wages to her Scots aunt who took in the wee lass as a babe. Would have been a tidy sum, Lady Holmes' so generous, you know. Fredericka always said though she were a lady's maid, her own daughter were to be a lady."

"Did you ever meet Henrietta? Do you know anything about her circumstances? Where was she living? Is she married?"

"No, that I didn't. I don't know such things, sir; maybe Lady Holmes might, seeing as the poor lass were to be visiting the Hall. I don't mind saying, Mister Sherlock, that I'm glad now that I never did meet her. It would make it worse, somehow. I hope you don't take that wrong."

They were now comfortably full, even Sherlock had eaten what was, for him, a truly vast quantity of the delicious fare. He turned to John.

"It's time for you to meet Figaro, John," he announced. John almost protested, feeling that riding a horse with Sherlock, such an expert horseman, would just be another opportunity to look weak, foolish or both. But he had loved riding as a lad, and getting out into the countryside sounded wonderful. He was afraid if he stayed in the Hall he would just lounge about, eating and drinking, and generally becoming a useless sloth. And he was more motivated now than ever to recover his strength.

" Let's go, then," he agreed. They thanked Mrs Blessing for breakfast and accepted a satchel of morsels to take out on their ride.

* * *

Sherlock chose another mount for their ride, Sir Tristan, a tall but sedate bay gelding. He stopped to pay his respects to the mighty Mephisto, though, which Mephisto accepted with the regal bearing of the lord of Lady Holmes' stables. Figaro was a grey cobby gelding, who placidly tolerated John's struggle to mount, finally requiring a leg up from the stableboy, without any fuss. They set off across fields that were starting to turn golden after the dry, warm summer. John was exhilarated. His body remembered what to do, although the strain on his weakened abdominal muscles was painful. But he needed this. He wasn't going to get better without pushing himself.

"You have a natural seat, John," Sherlock remarked. John assumed it was true; Sherlock did not flatter. They came to a gate which Sherlock opened. "Riddleston and Rexworth have mutual easements," he explained. "That is why the hunt was able to cross Rexworth Park.". They climbed a small hill and were looking down upon stables and fenced rings.

"Let's pay a visit to Rexworth Stables," Sherlock said.

A stableboy watered Sir Tristan and Figaro and the head groom came out to greet Sherlock. "Mr Holmes, it's good to see you," he said. Sherlock introduced John, and said that Lady Holmes had asked him to take a look at Fascination, Rexworth Park's new stud. "I'm sorry Lady Holmes didn't come herself, sir," the head groom, Walter, said. "No better judge of horseflesh, no offense, sir."

Walter was a muscular, weathered Australian who had been a polo player in his youth, but had a natural way with hunter jumpers. He had his choice of offers from stables around the world, but Rexworth Park's stables were among the world's finest, and Reginald, Lord Rexworth had been putting a renewed effort into improving the lines upon inheriting the estate twelve months earlier upon the demise of his father, ascending to the hereditary title of Marquess of Rexworth and £120 million.

"Thank you, I'll tell her. She's not well, I'm afraid, since the - accident - yesterday. No doubt you heard that I found the body."

"That I did. And I understand the dead lady was the daughter of Mrs. Holmes' maid,". Walter said.

"Did people generally know that Fredericka had a daughter?"

"I'm sure I never did, sir, but the women do get to gossiping. Can't abide gossip, meself, sir," Walter said bluntly, then turned to bring Fascination out. The chestnut hunter's coat gleamed. "That's four hundred thousand pounds' worth of warmblood flesh, Mr Holmes. If Lady Holmes wants to stand him to one of her mares, I''d say Mystery. But she knows her business, as I said. Please give Lady Holmes my compliments," He said politely, clearly not wishing to prolong the interview. "Please forgive me, I must be about my business. I can call up to the house sir, I'm sure Lady Rexworth would never forgive me if she missed an opportunity to give you your tea, sir."

"Thank you, Walter. Another time. I have neglected Lady Holmes quite enough of late, and she will be expecting us."

Sherlock and John remounted. As they left Sherlock asked, "Walter, how are the pheasants this season? Captain Watson is keen. Any chance for a place at the next drive?".

"Dead mens' shoes, Mr Holmes, dead mens' shoes. ". Walter was referring to the fact that prized places for driven shoots at Rexworth Park were privately held, and only became available upon a member's death. "But for you and Captain Watson, of course, there would always be a place. First drive is in a week, sir. See Roger Pitt, the estate manager, and I'm sure he'll set you up."

"Any geese yet?"

"You are eager, aren't you, Mr Holmes? No, it's not time yet. A full month yet, maybe more."

They rode back to Riddleston Hall, enjoying the sunshine and gorgeous countryside. Stone cottages of sheep farmers dotted the landscape. John felt a well being that he credited to his happiness as well as wholesome country air. But as they passed by the woods of Rexworth Park, he felt a shadow. What had happened to the poor woman whose body Sherlock had found? Why had she been roaming the wood?

He was about to ask Sherlock what he thought had happened, when they approached the road crossing. A gleaming black Bentley passed, slowed, but disappeared down the road. He heard Sherlock swearing under his breath.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"It's someone I would prefer to avoid."

"Well, what should we do? Back to Rexworth Park, then?". He wasn't serious, he was starting to look forward to getting down from Figaro.

"No, there's no avoiding this, I'm afraid."

"Come on, Sherlock, it can't be as bad as that.". He wondered if he knew this person. He wanted to ask Sherlock to just tell him everything, now, but his happiness was so perfect that he feared to do so, as though it would break a spell.

"Believe me, John, it is."

"Come on, Sherlock, tell me what's in store. I hate surprises. Speaking of surprises, why did you tell that man I was keen to shoot? I don't you know - well I mean. . . for sport." He pushed all thought of Afghanistan - the blood, the bullets, the landmines, the thrum of the helicopters, the screams of dying men - from his mind. His left hand started shaking and he pain behind his eyes came roaring back. Deep breaths. You're safe, John. "Excepting clay pigeons,". He said. He hoped Sherlock did not notice his attack of nerves. If he did, he concealed it well.

They were at the Hall now. Stubbins took Figaro and Sir Tristan back to the stable. The Bentley they had seen pass on the lane was parked in the drive. Sherlock sighed tragically. "It's my older brother. Mycroft. You knew him, rather you know him, John, but I don't blame you for putting that out of your mind. I wish I could."

* * *

When they entered the Hall, Sherlock heard distant voices. The library. "John, you don't have to see Mycroft. You don't have to see anybody. Go have a shower, rest.".

He recalled Dr Nazimi lecturing him about his possessiveness toward John. What did she know? He huffed inwardly. He's getting better, every day. Well, he was trying to protect John, keep him safe now. Keep John to himself until he was well, and strong. And when he was, he fully intended to keep John to himself altogether, probably pretty much forever.

John shook his head firmly. "I won't be discourteous to Lady Holmes, and I need to face things. Let's go see your brother. It will be all right, Sherlock."

Lady Holmes was serving tea in the library. There was a tall, somewhat sardonic looking gentleman sitting to her side, wearing a very serious-looking suit and tie, devouring Mrs Blessing's fresh bread and scones as though it was his last meal. A silver-haired man, in a much less expensively tailored suit, was restlessly pacing and appeared to have been watching out the windows. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

John observed this with tolerant amusement. Sherlock really seemed to be terribly antisocial unless he wanted something from someone. At least he seems to want something from me.

Sherlock stood in front of John as though to shield him. "Mycroft. Lestrade, what are you doing here?". Sherlock was outraged. "We agreed one month."

Lestrade took a step towards John, his face expectant, even hopeful. John was puzzled. He didn't know these men. Then Lestrade's face fell, and he looked almost as stricken as Sherlock had, in the beginning. What did it mean?

"John," the silver-haired man said, his voice breaking a bit "-- you don't know me? John?"

This was very awkward. He supposed he would have to get used to it. Was there a behavior code for amnesiacs? "Look, I'm sorry. I truly don't. I seem to have an empty space where the last year used to be. Please just ignore me, I'll catch up eventually.". He smiled uncertainly.

Sherlock now took John's hand, very firmly. John noticed everyone noticing this, and their varying reactions: Lady Holmes, quietly pleased; this Lestrade, actually furious; and the other man, who must be Sherlock's brother, possibly skeptical. His face was phlegmatic; John couldn't read him.

"John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Sherlock spat. "I feel sure he has an explanation as to how his jurisdiction has suddenly expanded to include Yorkshire. And this is my brother Mycroft. I feel sure he is also somehow responsible for Lestrade's. . .presence."

Lady Holmes calmly poured out two more cups of tea. "Now Sherlock. Must you always be so unkind. Your brother brought Detective Inspector Letrade because I asked him to."

Sherlock looked even more outraged. John tried to keep his head down and stay out of the crossfire.

"Mother! How could you? Don't you have any confidence in me? Respect for my work? Have you any idea how many crimes I've solved because Lestrade and his men couldn't?"

Lady Holmes ignored the outburst. "I'm sure that's true, Sherlock, but Yorkshire police won't work with you. I know it. And I owe it to dear Fredericka to see that we find out how her daughter died. And so I asked Mycroft to send the best from Scotland Yard. And besides, you have other responsibilities at the moment. I'm glad to see you looking so well, Captain Watson.". She noted the rising tempers between Sherlock, Letrade and even Mycroft. She firmly set down her cup.

"Detective Superintendent Weller telephoned. He will be here in an hour. In the meantime, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'll show you around to a few of our most interesting rooms, as promised. Come along, Captain Watson. , Mycroft, Sherlock, it doesn't hurt you to take an interest in the Hall's history, you know. It won't be mine forever."

* * *

 

The last room on Lady Holmes' tour was the former laboratory of the late Anthony Delamere Holmes, containing numerous glass specimen cases of rare preserved plants and insects from his travels. But John's attention was attracted by the human skeleton, propped erect by a stand. It was wearing one of Lord Holmes' old hats. The skull grinned at John and he grinned back.

Suddenly his own skull was pierced with the most excruciating pain yet. His vision clouded as a kaleidoscope of disjointed images filled his aching brain. A skull. 221b. "A friend of mine . . ." Stamford. Barts. A Scottish lighthouse. "I’m flattered by your interest but I consider myself married to my work. . ." Hamlet. Ophelia. A blue silk robe. Sherlock in a fencing costume. A poison pill. Love, in love with Sherlock. A crystal -filled cave. Moriarty. Corsica. Graffiti. A ski chalet. Blades cutting palms. Blood brothers. A riding crop. Passion. A lady in pink. An underground chamber. Holding his breath. Tuxedoes. Sherlock in his arms. A swimming pool. Mrs. Moriarty.

Afghanistan.

Spartan.

George Forsyte.

Head exploding in pink mist.

And his last clear thought as he faced down the Spartans' guns in that warlord's compound, guns meant for him: Sherlock was dead.

They had gone after Sherlock, too.

It was why they had separated them. That last day.

Sherlock was dead.

Lord Holmes' skeleton danced before his eyes. "Sherlock," he cried as he went down like a stone.

 

To be continued. . .


	7. Detective Superinendent Weller Pays A Call.

I wanted things to get better

I was in pain

The flashing lights have gone away

Emergency has passed

The future's right in front of me

And I won't finish last

Today is the day

That I love you

Lyrics to "The Emergency," All Rights Reserved, BT and Andrew Bayer

 

John’s eyes fluttered open. When he was able to focus he saw a coffered ceiling of richly carved dark wood. He was laying down. His head hurt.

There was a tremendous amount of shouting, different voices; some nearer than others; all seeming filtered through cotton wool. He blinked. Things became louder and clearer.

"Damn you! Out! All of you, out! Mother, fetch the doctor!"

This voice he knew. This was Sherlock. He was shouting hectically for some reason. But that couldn’t be right. Sherlock was dead.

He was dreaming, then. He had been feeling for some time – how long, exactly? – as though he was in a dream. He remembered that.

And that was all right.

He didn’t want to wake up, really. He would just lie here for a while and let it play out. Because if he woke up, he would be in the real darkness.

He heard other voices, protesting. And now there was more loud shouting, approaching, but farther away than the others: "Don’t you try to hang one on me, Mister Sherlock Holmes. You’ll have to get up a sight earlier in the day than that to fool old Weller. He’ll be questioned, like it or no —"

"Piss off, Weller," Sherlock yelled.

A door slammed.

The noise reminded him of gunfire and he instinctively closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Even if it was a dream. But then his hands were being lifted, and he looked up. Sherlock’s face hovered over his, his expression twisted into something like terror.

"John, say something to me. Please. What happened? What hurts?" He didn’t wait for John to respond, but was checking his breathing, lifting his eyelids and peering into his eyes, checking his pupils, John supposed. His voice sounded perfectly clear, if frantic; and he wasn’t shouting anymore.

John felt his breath on his cheek. Now was putting his ear to John’s chest.

For a dead man, he felt rather warm and solid. John decided to try an experiment.

"Sherlock. Am I dreaming?"

Sherlock sat up and stroked John’s forehead, pushing the hair aside. "That’s the second time you’ve said that to me today. Do you — do you remember?" He looked afraid, terribly afraid.

This morning. Yes, he remembered. He did remember, very clearly. Laying on a couch. His head was in Sherlock’s lap. There was a billiard table there. Waking up, saying, "Am I dreaming?" And Sherlock replying, "Not unless I’m dreaming, too."

But – Spartans. Guns. An explosion. Sherlock killed in the same deadly trap.

John reached up and squeezed Sherlock’s hand as though to stop him from falling, although he was laid out on the floor. The hand, slender though it was, felt very solid and reassuring. Suddenly, tears were flowing down his cheeks unbidden, and he couldn’t stop.

"Sherlock, I thought they killed you. I thought you were dead." He was racked with deep, shuddering sobs and he couldn’t stop. He turned his face away. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, least of all Sherlock. What was wrong with him? But he couldn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand.

"No, I’m here, I’m here, John, I’m fine, I’m not dead," Sherlock repeated over and over, like a mantra, like he could just – reason — with John.

Finally, John became a little calmer. Sherlock gently raised John up and maneuvered him to a huge battered old divan covered with worn kilims and flattened cushions. All of the strength had left his limbs; he felt like rubber. And then he felt surrounded by Sherlock’s bony arms and legs clasping him in a fierce embrace. He couldn’t have escaped if he tried. But he didn’t intend to try.

His head actually felt clearer now. His headache was gone, although his nose and eyes were swollen and red from crying. He still saw the dancing kaliedoscope of memories passing through his brain, but now it was somehow reassuring rather than frightening. Now he thought he understood what may have happened to him. And had some inkling of what Sherlock must have gone through.

He looked up. "Sherlock," he whispered, "I remember. I remember now. I remember everything. Almost everything, I think."

Sherlock didn’t speak, but his embrace became tighter if that was possible. He murmered something against John’s hair that he couldn’t hear. It may have been, "Thank God." Then he cleared his throat. "Are you all right now? Are you in pain?"

"No. I feel better now — better than I remember feeling since . . . it must have been since . . .was I in hospital . . . at Camp Bastion?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, we didn’t have time. We never made it to Bastion." Sherlock stopped a moment and swallowed hard, remembering John’s massive hemorrhaging, Caldwell’s desperate effort to transfuse enough blood to get John even as far as Bagram. They had made it by possibly less than a minute. "We had to take you to Bagram, do you remember Bagram?"

John remembered. But then he remembered, too, awaking at some point . . . in a hospital room, with a huge white space where memories used to reside, and excruciating pain under the mask of opiate drugs. And Sherlock had been there, the very first time he opened his eyes, but he hadn’t known him. The enormity of it took his breath away.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. God. I’m so sorry. I can’t explain — I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe me. You must believe this. I thought you were dead. Do you understand? Dead. But I didn’t even know that, until just now, here." He pressed his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling the solidity there, the rise and fall of his chest, the comforting thump of his heartbeat.

This was real.

He felt Sherlock’s limbs tense against his. John tried and failed to imagine what it must have been like for him. They lay quietly, breathing slowly becoming one.

"What did it?" He finally asked. "How did you remember?"

John laughed a little. Which felt strange under the circumstances, but now that his brain was functioning again, actually bringing forth real memories when he asked it to, he felt giddy, he felt like he could fly. "It was your father’s skull – I don’t mean his skull, of course; I mean that skeleton over there in the corner. It just struck me all of a sudden. That skull, the skull in 221b, that first day we met. And that made it all come crashing in, like I opened a locked door. I suppose I did."

"The skull," Sherlock repeated, as though the word had a foreign taste. "That skull. That’s — perfect," he sighed. John thought Sherlock sounded as though he had just received a very special present, something long desired, possibly rare or difficult to obtain, and which he no longer had any hopes of receiving. He supposed that was actually true.

"And you remember now? Everything?"

"Yes. At least, I think so."

"Prove it. Tell me something from before. Before . . . Afghanistan." He looked into John’s face, blue eyes very serious. "But nothing — bad, nothing painful. Something . . . good."

"All right . . . I know where we got the scars, the ones on our palms. And I remember why we did it. It was in Switzerland. . . .I remember everything."

John felt Sherlock heave a huge sigh, and some of the tension left his body.

"If you remember everything, John, then you remember what happened next," Sherlock whispered.

"Yes," John said, kissing his scarred palm gently, and proceeded to show him, slowly and reverently, as though either of them might break, or disappear at any moment, with his lips, his hands, his body, how very well he remembered.

* * *

After a time, there was a discreet knock at the door to the laboratory. John felt himself virtually strangled by Sherlock’s limbs. Sherlock whispered in his ear: "That will be the doctor. I suppose we must have them look at you."

"Then let’s get it over with."

There was more knocking.

"Why don’t they come in?"

"Because I locked the door," Sherlock said wickedly. "I know you’re all right. You had a vasovagal syncope. Common faint exacerbated by migraine headache. You’ll be perfectly well now. I believe your headaches should cease altogether. Your subconscious didn't want to remember, and the strain was giving you migraines. I know I'm right. Doctor Nazimi warned me, you know. She said I would be able to figure out why you couldn't remember. But I never did, you know," he said wistfully.

"Sherlock, dear, Open the door at once, please. Doctor Foster is here. Is Captain Watson all right? Please, Sherlock, we’re terribly worried."

John nodded to indicate that they had to re-enter the real world, that Sherlock should open the door. Sherlock reluctantly released John with a final kiss. Hovering at the door was a pale, concerned looking Lady Holmes and an elderly gentleman in old-fashioned country tweeds, wearing huge magnifying bifocal spectacles that made his pale blue eyes look like they were swimming in clear deep waters. He was slightly stooped over but briskly pushed his way into the laboratory when Sherlock cracked the door open wider.

"I can’t imagine what you young men are getting up to in here," he said crossly. Sherlock hastily smoothed his disordered clothing. "I’ve come all the way out to examine this patient at Lady Holmes’ special request. I don’t appreciate being left hanging about. Please leave, Mr. Holmes, and give me and Captain Watson some privacy," he said with asperity. John nodded, letting Sherlock know it was fine, and Sherlock left, closing the door on them.

Lady Holmes could see from Sherlock’s radiant face that all was well. She embraced her son. "Sherlock, please tell me, is he quite all right?"

"Yes, Mother. Everything is going to be all right. He’s remembered. Everything. He’s quite well, well, almost."

"Good Lord. Whatever happened to bring it back like that, so suddenly?"

"The skull. It was the petite madeleine, Mother. The skull."

Lady Holmes smiled. She didn’t know what Sherlock could possibly mean, well, except that it had to do with Proust, which made some sense here. But she could see Sherlock’s brain was now actually at rest, for once he was peaceful, happy. She didn’t want to spoil it by cross-examining him. She took his arm.

"Come along, Sherlock. Let’s go down and wait for Doctor Foster to finish. And let’s open some champagne. I feel like celebrating. I still have some of that wonderful ‘88 Veuve Cliquot."

Sherlock didn’t want to leave, he wanted to stay outside the door until John came out. But Lady Holmes gave him a knowing look, and he sighed. Possibly he was going to have to relax his vigilance. Just a bit. He followed her down to the library where Mycroft and Lestrade were waiting, Lestrade anxiously, Mycroft appearing, if anything, slightly bored. Lady Holmes announced that Captain Watson was quite well, and had fortunately recovered his memory.

"And I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave Captain Watson to himself, please don’t pry. He’ll tell us all about it, I’m sure, when he’s ready. Ah, McLeod, the champagne, lovely."

McLeod brought in a few bottles set into ice buckets, but didn’t look happy. In fact, she looked very worried. She whispered discreetly into Lady Holmes’ ear. She shook her head.

"I suppose it can’t be helped. I thought I made it clear to come back in the morning. But I suppose he has his job to do. Send him up, if you please. It’s quite all right." McLeod left. "Detective Superintendent Weller is quite determined. I admire persistence in a man," she said smoothly as McLeod opened the door again and announced, "Detective Superintendent Weller, my lady."

Weller came through the door like a bull charging a matador. He stopped and surveyed the scene.

"We meet again. What did you say your name was again, you there," he hollered at Lestrade. Without his mirrored sunglasses, his dark, shrewd eyes were like hard marbles.

"Detective. Inspector. Lestrade. New. Scotland. Yard."

"New. Scotland. Yard." Weller repeated thoughtfully. "I remember hearing on them, once. But strange to tell I’ve solved near on a hundred murders, mebbe more, in my day. Never once needed any ponce from New Scotland Yard to teach me how to suck eggs, if you catch my meaning."

Lestrade crossed the room with two swift steps and was nose to nose (or near enough) with the hulking detective with a dangerous look in his eye: "Here now, who’re you calling a ponce, mate? I’ll teach you to suck –"

"Detective!" Lady Holmes gasped, shocked. The men fell back, embarrased, stammering apologies to Lady Holmes. There was an awkward silence.

"Why are you here, Detective Superintendent," Sherlock asked, enunciating the words with the staccato diction of an Harrovian.

"Well, I don’t mind telling you. I need Captain Watson to account for his –" Weller appeared to search for the correct phrase " – movements I believe they would say, even in London, am I right Detective Inspector – his movements. Aye. For the night afore that lass’s body were found."

Everyone was stunned to silence.

Weller grinned broadly at the assembled faces. "Mebbe now’s not the best time for you to break out the bubbly. No call to get all mardy, but. On second thought, I’m that flaggin’. Glass’ed go down nicely." He looked expectantly at the shining silver buckets, water droplets glistening on their polished surfaces like they were crying tears of their own.

To be continued . . .


	8. The Alibi.

 

Lady Holmes pointedly did not open the champagne

Lestrade was first to break the painful silence.

"Then it looks like there’s a first time for everything, Detective Superintendent Weller. Because if this is where your investigation is taking you, you’re wasting time grasping at straws. If this is the best you’ve got — and since it’s you, and not your DI here asking, I’m guessing it is — then you need somebody’s help. Unless you have six different kinds of videotape taken by the Queen herself showing John Watson killing your victim in broad daylight and smiling nice for the camera, you’re so far off base you couldn’t find your own arse with both hands and a GPS." Lestrade folded his arms pugnaciously and stared down the battered DS.

"Then you must never have been involved in a murder investigation, son," Weller said heavily, ignoring Lestrade’s insult. "If you were, you’d know and know it well, everything in a murder investigation’s a waste of time and grasping at straws. Every bloody thing. Until the one thing tha’ isn’t. I never try to guess inside of 72 hours what’s a time waster and what’s not. And you’re wrong, my DI is here." Weller’s eyes revealed a weariness that seemed to reflect both the countless grinding hours of prior cases and dread of the toil to come in this one. Then he straightened and cracked the door open. "Prentiss!" He shouted into the corridor.

A head of shining, very fair blonde hair tied in an efficient ponytail rounded the door. "Sir?"

"Don’t dawdle, Prentiss, there’s folk here need statements taken. While we’re waiting for Captain Watson."

Detective Inspector Prentiss entered the library. She was tall, possibly even taller than Sherlock; with long legs and a figure covered in by a deliberately bland navy trouser suit which could not conceal abundant curves in all the right places and none of the wrong ones. Her face was somehow Nordic, high cheekbones, full lips and piercing, brilliant blue eyes. She surveyed the room full of men, and one older woman, confident of the field; clearly this was a woman accustomed to male attention, and a lot of it, and was possibly preparing to either shield herself from it, or assert herself, in the ways she was usually obliged to do.

However, upon observing that the group of (she admitted) unusually attractive males were variously outraged (the tall dark one and the silver-haired one), or bored (the one seated next to the elegant older woman), and undeniably utterly uninterested in her presence, she simply dug in her handbag for her notebook and waited for Weller to deploy her.

"I have a statement," Sherlock announced. His eyes burned with a fury that he didn’t even try to conceal.

"Sherlock, don’t - " Lestrade said suddenly.

Weller rubbed his chin. "My higher up, that’s my Chief to you, told me that his higher up, that means some suit in the Home Office, told him that he was sending up some miracle worker from Scotland Yard to hold my hand or wipe my arse or some such," he started, with relatively moderate volume that inexorably increased, "Mebbe they do solve murders different in London. New methods and all. Because this is the first I heard tell that the DETECTIVE tells the WITNESS not to make A BLOODY STATEMENT!"

Lestrade looked mutinous. "Look, there’s been an emergency, Captain Watson’s been — ill, and everyone’s had a difficult day. They can come down to your station tomorrow if you like. Nobody’s going anywhere. I will personally vouch for everyone here. Particularly Captain Watson," he said.

Weller rolled his eyes. "Well ain’t I chuffed. No, they won’t bloody come down to the station. First off, you don’t want to be parading Lady Holmes and her sons down to the station. You’re not a local man, you’re not to understand. The gossip mill would be burning up in a flash. Not good for them, not good for my investigation. Second, I can’t wait to take statements, I need them to get everything clear and straight. Now, not later. You know better, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I’ll make a statement now," Sherlock said again, impatiently. Prentiss tucked a stray hair behind her ear and prepared to take notes.

"I was with Captain Watson all night on the night before I discovered the body. In fact, I have been in his presence continuously since we arrived in Yorkshire until yesterday morning, at which point I left Riddleston Hall with the hunt, during which, as you are already aware, I discovered the body. That should eliminate Captain Watson entirely from your consideration and you may now move on to more — productive lines of inquiry," Sherlock declared arrogantly.

Weller nodded as if he had expected Sherlock to say this.

"All night, you say?"

"All night."

"Do you mean that there was no time that Captain Watson was out of your sight, all night long?"

"You have excellent hearing if nothing else, Detective Superintendent. That is just what I have been saying."

"You don’t . . . sleep, then?"

"Not generally."

"And you were in the same room as Captain Watson . . . .all night long?"

"I believe I have said so more than once now."

"And did he sleep?"

"He did. Very soundly, and all night once he got into bed."

"And you claim you did not?"

"I don’t claim it. I did not sleep."

"And you are prepared to swear that there was never any point that you closed your eyes, or left the room, for any reason?"

"Not precisely. I may have briefly closed my eyes."

Weller’s face betrayed a small degree of satisfaction. The arrogant snot wasn’t as indomitable as he tried to make out, Weller thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.

"May have briefly closed your eyes. . . .I see. Well, that’s understandable, lad. Most folk do, sometime during the night. About how long? How long did you close your eyes?"

"No more than . . . thirty seconds. Unfortunately. I certainly wished it were longer. At the time."

"Not long enough, then, for Captain Watson to have left the room without your knowing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with exasperation and began pacing in a sort of whirl around the room, like a lost bee. "Have I not made myself perfectly plain? No, that is impossible."

"Impossible, you say? How can you be sure, if your eyes were closed?"

"Because when my eyes were closed, Captain Watson’s tongue was pretty far down my throat."

There was an eloquent silence. Lestrade abruptly turned away and looked like he was searching for something not a priceless antique to break. Finding nothing suitable, he jammed his hands under his armpits and glowered at Sherlock, not noticing that Mycroft was watching him carefully.  Prentiss studiously scribbled her notes and tried to suppress an unwelcome feeling of disappointment. She reminded herself to give herself another one of her stern talks, later, about not falling for the London types. It was a mistake every time. Weller smiled a reptilian smile.

"If yer trying to shock us, lad, we’ve all the modern – ah, conveniences – in the country, too.  Never fear. Pray continue," he smiled encouragingly. Sherlock decided not to address the malapropism.

"There’s nothing more to tell. He fell asleep. He was quite inebriated. We had been at dinner and at billiards earlier that evening, and at all times were in the company of several witnesses including my mother and her estate manager. I was not inebriated. I stayed up all night. I watched him sleep. I did not leave the room for any reason until about seven o’clock the next morning, when I left to go prepare for the hunt. He was still asleep at that time. I believe our housekeeper, McLeod, brought breakfast on a tray to Captain Watson within a few minutes after I left, and returned a short time thereafter to bring Captain Watson with some hunting attire. He came down; the whole hunt saw him come down. The hunt departed at approximately eight ‘o clock in the morning."

Weller considered. Not a very likely alibi. But not bad as alibis went, either.

"You seem a clever sort, Mister Holmes. Science of Dee-duct-ion and all that." He flapped his huge hand presumably to express the scope of his understanding of the vastness of Sherlock’s expertise. "So I imagine you can tell what my next question is."

"You ought not to have any at all. But you are correct, I can tell what your next question is, since you lack the wit to follow this case in the direction of the evidence. Your question is, why did I watch Captain Watson all throughout the night."

Weller nodded sagely. "Got it in one."

Sherlock stopped pacing and whirling. "Because he’s mine." Unspoken, but abundantly clear, was the silent, "obviously."

More silence.

"Did you get that, Prentiss?"

"Yes, sir."

"Forgive me, Mister Holmes, if that answer does not ---- satisfy."

"Nevertheless, it is the only one that applies. Whether you are satisfied is of no interest to me. You have my statement."

The door opened and John entered, looking both relaxed and animated. "Doctor Foster gives me a clean bill of health — " he burst out happily, until he noticed Weller and Prentiss standing there, looking very official. He remembered Weller from yesterday. From the body in the wood. The cloud of happiness that had enveloped him evaporated. "What’s this about, then? Is it about that poor woman?"

He wondered why everyone looked sorry for him.

* * *

Weller smiled gently. "Glad to hear it, son. A clean bill of health. Then you won’t be wanting to beg off from answering a few questions."

"Beg off?" John asked, bewildered. "Why should I? But I don’t know anything, I just got here two days ago. Never been here before in my life."

Weller nodded to Prentiss. "I am Detective Inspector Elenor Prentiss. I am assisting Detective Superintendent Weller in the investigation of the murder of Henrietta Trimble. Now, Captain Watson, you say you’ve never been here before. That’s not strictly true, is it? You were with the Third Parachute Regiment, correct?"

"That’s correct. Was. I was recently . . .discharged." John did not want to think about Afghanistan, the Army, or Spartan. What did this have to do with the dead woman?

"And where did you receive your training?"

John laughed uneasily. "If you’re from these parts, ma’am, you have to know I was trained in Catterick. But Catterick’s in North Yorkshire. Miles from here."

"Did you leave this house at any time in the 24 hours before you and Lady Holmes drove out to Rexworth Park to view the body in this case?

"No, of course not. Where would I go? I don’t have a car."

"You were seen today on horseback."

"But that was with Sherlock — here, what’s this about, then? I don’t understand why I’m being asked this."

"Just trying to account for everyone’s movements. Sir. You were seen by Scene of Crime Officers looking closely at the body, together with Mr. Holmes here. Can you explain why you wanted to look at the corpse?"

John was flummoxed. He realized how very odd that must look to the police. While Sherlock had special dispensation on occasion from Scotland Yard, he could appreciate that this was a unique arrangement not likely to be respected, or even understood, by other police forces. "Because Sherlock asked me to. I am a doctor. Sherlock is . . .a consulting detective. I assist him in his cases, often. You can ask Detective Inspector Lestrade here if you doubt me. The dead woman . . .was the daughter of Lady Holmes’ former maid, I was told. I expect Sherlock wanted to find out how this ---- this terrible crime happened."

"Why should he particularly wish to do that? Did he tell you he was acquainted with the lady?"

"Well, of course you can ask Sherlock, but, knowing Sherlock as I do, I assumed he was – motivated — to help his mother, to be sure that all that could be done, was being done. It is what he does."

Prentiss scribbled some more on her pad. Certainly this Watson seemed very sincere; a very likeable sort of person. She understood he was even a war hero of some sort. That is why it was slightly uncomfortable for her to contemplate the direction that the case was taking them. But usually, it was. One way or another.

Murderers could very often be the most likeable sorts of all.

Weller indicated that they should leave. They said goodbyes, courteously enough. On the way out, Weller paused.

"Please don’t leave the area. If you wish to do so, contact me or Detective Inspector Prentiss first, will you? And one final thing. Captain Watson, please bring us the clothing you were wearing, the night before the body was discovered."

Sherlock held his hand out. "John, don’t say anything. Detective Superintendent, this is where you must say your goodbyes. Unless you have a warrant, Captain Watson has nothing further to provide you."

Weller exchanged an unreadable look with Prentiss. "A warrant. Formal, like? I see. Well, then, as you like," he said equably, having finally brought the volume of his vocals down within the outer limit of ordinary human discourse. "Good day, all; Lady Holmes. Perhaps another time for the bubbly, eh?"

* * *

Lestrade and Mycroft were all for having a strategic meeting to try and deflect the focus of Weller and Prentiss from John. John was in a state of near shock, realizing that he was the focus of a murder investigation. He felt that he was thrown back into another one of his nightmares, but this time, he couldn’t wake up. But he knew, at least, that he was getting stronger: his headache did not return, and his predominant emotion was not fear, the unrelenting fog of fear that had surrounded him since he had awoken in the hospital.

No, his predominant emotion was anger. Anger at his integrity being questioned in this way. Perhaps he was a killer of sorts; that is what war did, that was what paras did. He had plenty of blood on his hands, and he had to live with that. Try to, anyway. As best he could. Day by day. But no one had ever suggested that he was remotely capable of something like this. A defenseless woman, alone, shot in cold blood.

He put his head in his hands, prompting Sherlock to spring up, declaring that the meeting would be deferred until John was rested, and dragged him off over the protests of Lestrade, Mycroft and even Lady Holmes. "Sherlock, where are you taking him?" she called after them. Sherlock did not reply, but pulled John along through narrow back halls that he imagined were used by the servants.

When they emerged into the scorching late afternoon sunshine, they were in a courtyard behind the house. Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket and started up a battered old Land Rover that was parked here, and they zoomed off. As they left, he pulled out his mobile. "McLeod. Sherlock. Find Captain Watson’s clothes from dinner the other night. The first night, yes. Put them in a plain paper bag and hold them for me. Yes, all of them. Yes, even those. Put them somewhere safe and don’t speak to anyone about it. Do you understand? It’s very important. You do recall the clothes? Good. Ring me when you’ve done it."

"Why do they want my clothes, Sherlock?"

"Probably they have some hair or fiber evidence from body, and they want to compare it to what you were last wearing. That’s the most likely explanation. You were hovering over the body. Naturally any hair or fiber on the body that can be traced to you, or to me for that matter, is easily explained by that simple fact. I believe they are on what one might call a wild goose chase. I don’t intend to let you be the goose," Sherlock said with what was for him an attempt at light humor.

* * *

They arrived at a stone cottage in a small wood. The Hall could no longer be seen.

"What is this place?" John asked.

"Smith’s Cottage. Once was the blacksmith’s. I used to come here, often. It has been a long time, though." He pulled a huge iron key from his pocket and worked the door open. "No one will bother us here."

"But won’t everyone worry? And what about the police?"

"My mother will know where I’ve taken you. Let her entertain Mycroft and Lestrade. I want you to myself," he said almost petulantly. "If we had stayed at 221b, you would have been, you know."

"But I wouldn’t have seen that skeleton. So it’s better this way."

Neither of them mentioned the murder again.

Sherlock pulled him by the hand into the cottage, and firmly shut the door behind them. He carefully turned the key in the lock and hung the key on a peg. The tiny cottage was spotless (in fact, McLeod had prepared it for just this eventuality), furnished with worn old chintz sofas and gently peeling leather chairs huddled close around a stone fireplace. There were no rugs, but the stone floor was swept clean. There was a tiny kitchen with a vast refrigerator. An open doorway revealed a minuscule bedroom almost entirely taken up by a high bed covered in a white quilt. It was very still, almost as though it were under a spell. They might be the only two people in the world.

Suddenly it was Sherlock who seemed overwhelmed by the enormity of the ceaseless accumulation of shocks, going back, John guessed, to the very moment he announced he intended to return to Afghanistan. And Sherlock had insisted on staying by his side. Right to the very end, he had.

John reached for Sherlock and held him tight, and this time it was Sherlock that lost his strength. It was very hot inside, the windows were still closed and despite the cool stone, the cottage was sweltering in the late summer heat. John drew him over to one of the sagging sofas but before he could comfortably arrange himself, Sherlock was pulling at his own clothes, discarding them haphazardly until he was naked. Sherlock’s skin was glistening with perspiration and his skin felt almost feverish to John.

"There’s a pool, you know. Mother had it put in when I was at uni. Let’s swim." John started to remove his own clothing but he stopped. "You do it," he said. Sherlock’s eyes shone and he slowly, carefully removed John’s clothing piece by piece, kissing gently him along the way.

When John did not protest, his kisses became bolder, until he was kneeling before John, licking the scars on John’s abdomen. Sherlock loved this, because the skin here was shiny and tight and new, and tasted differently, felt differently under his tongue than the other skin, under the tang of John’s sweat. He could kiss and lick John just here, for hours.

John realized his mistake and put his hand on Sherlock’s head to stop him, sinking his fingers into his hair. "Sherlock, don’t . . . .you promised we would wait. I want to be strong, strong for you. It won’t. . . be much longer. I’m still . . . ahhh," he groaned in frustration. Sherlock’s lips were grazing the sensitive skin of his belly, where the fresh scars made a crazed patchwork, arousing tingling sensations that were not only pain. He felt himself hardening at the same time a tight, burning catching grabbed the muscles there. It was maddening. It was intoxicating. He wanted more.

Sherlock ignored his protest but climbed up onto the sofa with him, laying every inch of his lanky body against John’s, both of them perspiring freely now in the sweltering heat, their hot skin rubbing slickly together. John didn’t want to stop it any more, couldn’t stop it, and when Sherlock started kissing him, gently, carefully, but probing deep, his cock pressed demandingly against his thigh, there was nothing in the world but this, this love filling him up, this melting together, this magic silence. John found that his hand stroking Sherlock, holding him in his hand, heavy, hot, swollen. Sherlock was whispering against his neck, "John . . .I’ve waited, I waited for you, it’s been so long . . .I don’t know if I can take . . ." John pulled his mouth back up to his. "No, it’s all right, it’s all right, now . . ." He felt Sherlock’s cock jump in the palm of his hand, and now Sherlock’s entire body was shivering and slipping against his, a taut length of want. "John, please," he groaned, his deep voice even deeper, rough with desire. "Come then, do it," John gasped against his mouth and felt Sherlock’s cock swell that little bit more as he stroked it, once, and he did, coming with a long, shuddering moan, filling John’s hand with it, flowing, and coating them both.

He didn’t move but lay panting against John’s neck. And then he was quiet, and John realized a minor miracle had occurred.

Sherlock was asleep.

This time, it was John who watched.

To be continued . . .


	9. The Caution.

Lady Holmes slipped out of the room as Lestrade and Mycroft were debating the most expeditious means of simply having DS Weller transferred. Transferred far, far away. Somewhere deeply undesirable, far from Riddleston Hall.

"Brixton?" Mycroft threw out.

Lestrade shook his head. "Hackney. Or maybe -- I just take him out myself," Lestrade growled. "No way I'm just- sitting here - while he gets a search warrant. He's out of his mind, obviously. Somebody's trying to put John in the frame. Mycroft, you know the people, the area.

"Who would hate Sherlock enough to frame John for murder?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and pondered. This, he had to admit, was a correct question. Not the only one, but possibly the best one. John's only connection with Yorkshire, as he knew from John's files, was his training at Catterick, which, as John had explained, was very far from Riddleston Hall. That he could have any connection with the secret daughter of Lady Holmes' maid, sufficient to give him reason to kill her, was preposterous.

And the very idea of John having murdered a stranger, a random woman, in cold blood with a shotgun, was so bizarre that only a North Yorkshire-bred dinosaur such as Weller could possibly entertain it.

So, why would someone want to frame John for this murder? To hurt Sherlock, it was a good possibility. Hurting John being the only truly meaningful way one could hurt Sherlock, Mycroft had to admit.

"No one here in the area; not anymore, at any rate. Of course, if one considers the overall question of 'who hates Sherlock?' the list gets rather long. You know that as well as I do. But this does not have the feeling of a Moriarty, or any of Sherlock's lesser adversaries. But as for people in these parts. . .when he was at uni, and for some years after, Sherlock. . . Well, you know. Drugs. And his few local friends, well, they tended to have similar. . .habits. Bad sorts all, around. Caused a bit of trouble, I can tell you, at the local pubs and so forth. In particular, Reggie Rexworth has always hated Sherlock. But really, it's hardly likely to be an issue now. Sherlock hasn't crossed paths with Rexworth for a decade. And Rexworth just inherited; he's the Marquess now, worth £120 million, not including the estates."

"Right. I'll want to talk to this Rexworth, then, but let's put that theory aside. For now. So, someone who knows John is here, then. At Riddleston Hall. Knows John is a brain damaged soldier with post-traumatic stress disorder and amnesia." Lestrade said, pacing. "The sort of man who they could say just --went off his nut and killed this woman in some sort of --fit of madness."

Mycroft nodded. It made a tragic sort of sense. "That narrows the field. Considerably. But doesn't assist, either. Mummy, of course. The servants. Maybe the estate manager. Doctor Foster. We'll have to ask Mummy who else may have known about John's -- condition. But none of them would say anything."

Lestrade threw his hands up. "You're having me on! 'The servants!' Don't you mean half the county, then? Wouldn't John have been gossiped about?"

"You don't know this household. Mummy doesn't tolerate gossip. I assure you no one amongst the servants would speak of John's -- condition, or anything concerning one of her house guests. Let alone someone . ..so very close to Sherlock."

Lestrade rubbed his face to conceal the fleeting but deep pain Mycroft caused by referring to John's renewed attachment to Sherlock. In his own mind, he refused to give it any greater importance. He steadfastly held on to hope that someday, John's eyes (and heart) would be opened, that he would see Sherlock for what he truly was. And see what he, Lestrade, stood ready to give John. Given half a chance.

But now, nothing mattered but keeping John out of the clutches of the West Yorkshire police and specifically, the monstrous maw of Detective Superintendent Charlie Weller.

"Right." Lestrade said determinedly. "We'll just see about that. Let's have the list then. Everyone in the Hall household. Don't leave anyone out, no matter how unlikely or unimportant they might seem. Something tells me that our murderer is close at hand."

Mycroft stood up and went to the bookcase. "I'll call McLeod back in. She's the housekeeper. She can locate John's garments, the ones Weller wants a warrant for. Best we have the first look, yes? And she can help with the list."

With his back to Lestrade, he fiddled with something and with a soft snick, a hidden door to a safe opened. Mycroft withdrew two handguns, proffering one to Lestrade. Technically, he was on strike from using his firearm. Lestrade was on temporary assignment to Black Team, part of Scotland Yard’s elite Specialist Firearms Branch. Black Team/CO19 operatives had famously taken down the gang of armed robbers who had made an attempt to steal the De Beers Diamond from the Millenium Dome. Now, so many members of Black Team were being threatened with prosecution for in connection with discharging their firearms that all of the special officers had laid down their arms in protest.

But here in West Yorkshire, far from the watchful eye of his superiors and colleagues, a little extra protection couldn’t hurt.

And he had definitely clocked the size of the hole in the victim’s chest.

Lestrade hefted the cold gray metal. It felt good. He thrust it into his waistband.

They exchanged a grim look, one that pledged that they would stop at nothing to protect John from what was coming.

* * *

Lady Holmes encountered McLeod as they both were making speedily for the doorway of the laundry behind the kitchen. Lady Holmes gave McLeod an appraising look. McLeod looked flustered.

"McLeod, I believe you must have duties elsewhere," Lady Holmes said firmly.

McLeod folded her arms over her ample bosom. "Nay, madam. My place is here," and she tried to shoulder her way past Lady Holmes. "If you're wanting to look at the menu for tonight, 'tis on the table," She gestured firmly toward the kitchen.

"That will do, McLeod," Lady Holmes said sharply. "Be about your business."

McLeod drew herself up to her greatest height. "My business, my lady, is the interests of the family. All of it. And I don't care if it's my place or no to say that the family includes our Captain Watson, now. Mister Sherlock can't do without him, anyone with an eye can see that."

The two women's gazes met, equally steely. It was Lady Holmes who gave in before the simple yet indomitable strength of McLeod.

"Right, then. We understand each other. Where are Captain Watson's clothes? The ones from the first dinner. Get them all for me now, if you please," Lady Holmes whispered as though the awful Weller might be listening around any corner.

McLeod nodded. "They should all be here still. Janet'll be 'long tomorrow to take the fine things into Cawton for dry laundering." McLeod fished in a huge wicker laundry hamper and withdrew crumpled black trousers, socks, boxers, a white undershirt.

And a new- looking charcoal grey jumper that had unraveled at one of the cuffs.

And was stained with dark blotches that both women recognized with a chill of horror.

* * *

Weller and Prentiss pulled into the car park of the Villiers Arms, Weller's favored pub in the market town of Cawton, a few miles distant from Riddleston Hall. It was a sagging, half-timbered old pub dating back to the 1600s, and had not succumbed to the gastro-pub trend, a huge plus in Weller's books. For Prentiss, not so much. They made their way into the dark, low ceilinged warren of rooms, and went to Weller's favorite table in the back. Prentiss dutifully fetched their unvarying two pints of bitter and they sat, sipping meditatively.

Prentiss mulled over Weller's assault on the Holmes manse today. Certainly, the first cannon had been fired. But that Lestrade. . .despite the obligatory sword rattling with Weller, the detective clearly intended, and seemed capable, of proving them wrong. And quite unlikely to assist them in any way in making a case against John Watson. She realized that the Home Office denizen who had seen fit to send a Scotland Yard detective to West Yorkshire had never imagined that said detective was in love with their prime suspect. He didn't try to hide it in the slightest, she thought, recalling his clear fury at them, but even more specifically at the interesting Sherlock Holmes.

And Watson himself, well, he wasn't anything like she had been led to expect. A half-crazed PTSD case, a paratrooper just back from Afghanistan, with a drinking problem, drugs too, possibly, they had been told by their chief witness. Instead, the man looked a little frail, but quite in possession of his wits. Happy, even joyful, when he first entered the room. And nothing like a man who had just blown a hole in a woman's chest with an 8-bore shotgun.

Which meant. . . Maybe, someone was trying to play the West Yorkshire police for fools.

And Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard might solve the case, claim all the glory.

This would not stand.

"Sir," she ventured with trepidation. Only the bold dared to disturb Weller in his silent communion with his pint. He put his glass down with care.

"Well, Prentiss? You look like you're passing a kidney stone over there. Painful, me dear dad suffered terrible on 'em. Are you about to start caterwaulin' or have you got something of note to observe about the Trimble case?"

She ignored this aside as she ignored most of Weller's verbal fits of fancy. Weller seemed to admire her thick skin.

"Sir, when Watson came into the room, I could swear he seemed--happy. Genuinely happy. And I've seen murderers try and pretend that they are calm. Or sad. But one thing that's almost impossible to fake is real happiness."

"What's that, then, Prentiss, you don't hold with a happy murderer? Sounds like one of them new pubs- 'The Happy Murderer'. You've never seen a man, knocked off his wife that's been irritating him this many a year, about to ride off into the sunset with his dolly-bird?"

Prentiss knew Weller was trying to annoy her. She had done a long stint in the domestic violence unit. The fact that he was trying to irritate her now, about the direction of her thinking in the Trimble case, meant one thing.

He was afraid that she was right. She took a sip from her nearly untouched pint.

"Sir, we need that warrant. Then, maybe, things will look a little more likely. But with respect, sir, I don't see it."

"See it? Speak plain, Prentiss. Are ye sayin' you don't think John Watson is our man?"

She nodded slowly. "It's too convenient. Stranger, mentally ill, soldier, just back from the war. And he has an alibi."

Weller took a long gulp from his pint, eyeing the diminishing volume with regret. Then he looked at Prentiss with a gleam in his eye. He tapped a meaty forefinger to his temple.

"Now that's what I call right thinking, lass. Some bugger's trying to make Charlie Weller out a horse's ass. Get that warrant and let's have a quiet word with that fancy detective."

"DI Letrade, sir?"

"Any other one? Got that right. I want him under my eye."

"Yes, sir. And if I may say. . ."

Weller frowned.

"Well, seeing as yer on a hot streak, Prentiss, fire away."

"You'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Sir."

"Aye. And a closed mouth catches no flies, Prentiss."

* * *

Late the next morning, Sherlock was floating in the tiny swimming pool behind Smith's Cottage. He was quite sunburnt. He quite liked to submerge his ears under the water and float in the otherworldly aquatic silence. It was one of the few things that quieted the riotous tumult of his thoughts. Usually. Today, it wasn't working.

John was laying on a blanket under a nearby tree, watching Sherlock. Since recovering his memory, he had struggled with feelings of sorrow and remorse that threatened to crush his fragile new happiness. Not for himself, no, for Sherlock's suffering while John had forgotten him. Had wiped the memory of their life together from his injured mind. Sherlock had borne it all bravely, and in silence. John thought that Sherlock was deeply hurt, and in ways he had never been hurt before, and wouldn't admit it or, more likely, didn't realize it himself. If it took the rest of his life, he would make it right.

But first, there were some hard questions that he had to ask.

Sherlock finally emerged from the pool and flopped down onto the blanket. He noted John's dark expression with dismay. Now that John's memory was returned, he had counted the hours until John started asking questions. Possibly he could distract John. He started tracing the outlines of his scars with his fingertip. John sighed and stretched, then gently but firmly took his hand away.

"Sherlock."

"Don't speak. I'm trying to sleep."

"No you're not. You just woke up an hour ago."

Silence. Sherlock was pretending to sleep.

"Sherlock."

The blue eyes opened, looking at the sky. He was listening.

"Please tell me about Monroe. I need to know."

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He didn't want to pull them back, back to Afghanistan. He sighed.

"Trust me, John. I did everything I could. The persons. . .responsible have paid. But I don't want to talk about it. Not now."

John nodded, his heart full. The dead were gone. Miraculously, he and Sherlock had been spared, were here, in the sun. The sun and the pool felt wonderful. McLeod had stocked the refrigerator with enough of her nourishing fare to hold them for a week, and they had already attacked it voraciously with their suddenly unquenchable appetites.

Maybe they should just stay here, forget everything for a while.

"I can't just stay here, you know," Sherlock sighed.

"Don't, Sherlock. Just -- don't, all right. I'm quite safe. It's just a -- wild goose chase. You said it yourself. Let Lestrade handle it. No one's going to seriously try and peg a murder on me."

Sherlock tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensation he felt any time John spoke Lestrade's name. He sat up. "John, I want you to do something for me."

"Anything. Anything but what you're about to ask me, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. "How do you know what I'm going to ask you, John?"

John sighed. "Do you think I can't see your brain working on this? If you have any intention of leaping into the middle of this - murder investigation, now, of all times, then you aren't doing it alone. You can forget that."

"John, Doctor Nazimi – "

"Damn Doctor Nazimi!!!! Damn -- all bloody doctors!!! Fuck!!!" He shouted in a fit of frustration. "I'm not sitting by like some sodding--- useless --mental case --- while you, and Lestrade, and Mycroft, go running around trying to save my skin. Again. I'm warning you now, Sherlock, I'm done with all that. If you're in, then I'm in."

Sherlock just looked into his furious face, unperturbed. So John was really feeling better, he thought. He thought John looked amazing when he was angry, actually. He could almost provoke it deliberately just to watch it unfold, the fire in his eye, the pulse beating in his neck, his breath coming faster. . . . And just like that, it was like his John was back, truly back, strong, brave, a soldier. His lover.

"And I thought we got all that sorted before Afghanistan," John continued, somewhat more calmly but with no less heat. "Don't you know by now? I won't break. I've been through the dark and back, and I didn't break, I won't," he said, pulling Sherlock down for a hard kiss. Time to give him a taste of what's in store, he thought. He pulled him in closer, his fingers tightening in his wet hair.

"Break me now, then," Sherlock whispered.

An aggravated cough interrupted their precipitous descent into unbridled lust. They pulled apart to observe Lestrade standing there, and John saw just the briefest hint of pain before he turned his face away, looking for all the world as if he wished he could be blind, or anywhere else in the world, or both.

"John. Sherlock, there's a few things you need to see. Probably best you come back to the house."

Sherlock stood up and started putting his clothes on. John struggled up, his left leg still not quite obedient, but he refused help. He started putting his clothes on, too, and could not help but notice Lestrade pointedly looking at a tree, or some distant point beyond his shoulders. John made a mental note that he simply had to have a serious, private talk with Lestrade, and soon.

"No, John, not you. You stay well out of this. Stay here at the cottage. For a lot of reasons, but mainly. . . you've been through enough, just let those handle this whose business it is."

John shook his head, gently now. Sherlock filed away for later analysis the fact that John didn't seem inclined to snarl at Lestrade about this, about trying to protect him.

"Look, I understand what everyone's trying to do for me. And I am grateful. But it's time for me to carry my own water.". He started marching towards the car, without looking back. Lestrade and Sherlock exchanged a look that might have been a promise to tear each other to pieces later, or might have been a mutual desire to lock John in the cottage against his will. The moment passed, though, and they followed after John's limping form.

* * *

By common consent the library had been requisitioned for their use as a command post for the case. Lestrade, Sherlock and John entered the library to find Mycroft going over a list of the Riddleston Hall staff’s schedules for the days before and after the murder, presumed to have occurred in the early morning hours before the hunt. Lestrade had some reports and photographs spread out over a table.

"I met with DI Prentiss," Lestrade said. "Cool customer, that one. I think they’re still in for John. I expect them to show up with a search warrant any minute now. But she asked for my help. I told her what I thought, obviously. They’re ‘keeping all lines of inquiry open,’ of course –" here Sherlock gave a sarcastic sort of snort, already gazing rapidly over the photographs. "— And I was able to secure a copy of the autopsy report and photos. I thought, Sherlock, that you should review it. " He looked at John seriously. "And John, it is completely improper for you to view this. For many reasons."

John simply came forward, saying mildly, "Really, Lestrade. I am a doctor." Lestrade gave a kick to the side of the bookcase and drew away to let them look.

"While you’re looking at that," Mycroft said, "I took the precaution of having McLeod gather up Doctor Watson’s clothing from the night before the hunt. I have it laid out here in plastic bags. Doctor Watson, can you confirm that those are your clothes, the ones that you were wearing that night?"

John looked. Rumpled black trousers. Black dress socks. Boxer shorts. A white undershirt. A charcoal grey jumper. Scuffed black shoes.

"Yes, that certainly looks like them."

John caught the swift glances exchanged between Mycroft and Lestrade.

"All right, good, John." Lestrade said.

"What did Prentiss say about the alibi?" Mycroft asked. "Do they accept it?"

"I wouldn’t go that far. Prentiss doesn’t seem to trust Sherlock."

John was getting aggravated now.

"Would someone care to tell me what in the hell is going on? Alibi? What ‘alibi’?"

Sherlock did not look up from the autopsy photographs. "You weren’t to know, John, but I stayed in your room that night. All night. While you were asleep. Passed out, not to put too fine a point on it. And I told the police that."

John felt as though the ground were shifting beneath his feet. He saw that Mycroft and Lestrade were eyeing him closely without trying to be caught doing so. He recalled the night before the body was found, the first night at Riddleston Hall. Dinner. Billiards. He had been drunk, taken too many pain pills. He had kissed Sherlock, delirious, and had fallen - or had been pushed – into the bed.

But he could swear (almost) that he had watched the back of Sherlock’s head disappearing out his door, and the solid thunk of the door closing before he passed out altogether. And he could also swear he had gotten up in the middle of the night to take a piss and had banged his foot on the bed frame. Dark though the room was, the windows were open and the moonlight clear. He would have remembered if Sherlock was watching by his bedside. Especially since Sherlock had actually been doing so, night after night, when John awoke from his terrible dreams.

But not that night.

He could almost swear to it.

Almost.

No one was looking at him any more. He decided to keep his mouth shut.

* * *

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed with that unique expression of satisfied glee that he only uttered when beginning to unravel a difficult case. "Yes!! Here it is, just here." He had been staring at the autopsy photos, which were of a very high resolution and quality, through a magnifier, for at least a quarter of an hour. He prodded a particular spot in one of the photographs.

"She wasn’t shot, John."

John did not laugh. Of course the woman had been shot. But he knew that anything Sherlock Holmes had to say about a dead body, he had a very good reason for saying. It followed, then, that in some sense, the woman had not been shot.

Sherlock did not seem inclined to elaborate. He was minutely examining another photograph with his magnifier. Some of these photos had convenient enlargements as well, and he shifted back and forth rapidly amongst them.

"Sherlock. The woman has a large gauge shotgun blast to her chest. I cannot imagine how that happened, if she wasn’t shot."

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "No, that’s not it. Look here." He held the magnifier out to John. John looked at the spot Sherlock was pointing at. It was an enlarged photo of the chest cavity. A small part of the heart muscle and aorta remained intact, the rest had been obliterated by the force of the shot visible within the wound cavity.

John looked closely. There was a tiny, narrow, and straight wound running across the fragment of heart muscle and aorta. That could not possibly have been caused by the random explosive pattern of the shot.

"Sherlock, there looks like an incision of some sort in the heart and aorta. Separate from the shotgun wound. And almost certainly not from the autopsy."

Sherlock nodded intently. "From the size of the wound and the wound profile, I’m saying it’s an 8 bore, 36 inch barrel . . . at least three, maybe four inch chamber rifle. This shot is BB size . . . modern, new tungsten alloy from the look of it. Lestrade, do we have any of the shot?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I can get us a look, though."

Mycroft glanced over the photographs with a bland but perceptive eye. "Then you would say, I imagine, Sherlock, that the woman was killed by some sort of blade. And not the shotgun wound," he observed.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, relieved at being understood without having to go through it all, his brain already racing ahead to the next problem. "But, there was no blood around the body. So, even if she had already been -- stabbed, yes, let’s go with stabbed – and then shot, there should have been a vast deal of blood where I found the body. And there wasn’t. So, the woman was killed elsewhere."

"Wherever it was," John said, "There will be a lot of blood. Too much to clean up. Because recall that there is almost no livor mortis. I had estimated the time of death to have been maybe 8 hours before the body was found. She was substantially, but not entirely exsanguinated before the body was moved."

"Actually, the autopsy report states six hours," Sherlock observed. "That would put time of death at approximately two thirty in the morning."

"So, someone stabbed the victim, shot the body, and moved it to hide what really happened," Lestade put in, just to show Sherlock (and John, if he admitted it) that he was perfectly capable of keeping up. "The scene of the actual murder is somewhere else.

"Somewhere we will find a lot of blood."

* * *

Sherlock ignored Lestrade. "Look at these abrasions, here. Under the woman’s armpits. Clear marks from the pressure of a rope, and a rough one at that."

"She was restrained for a period of time before the murder?" Lestrade asked.

"That’s what the autopsy report says." Another derisive snort. "But no, not those sorts of abrasions. Unless she were unconscious, which is possible. No signs of struggle. Clean impressions of the rope. Do we have toxicology?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock slapped the table with frustration. If they were in London, he would have privileged access to all sorts of interesting tests and experiments that he was itching to do. Here in West Yorkshire all he could use was his brain. It would have to suffice.

"No, well . . . no signs of struggle, and a very odd place to restrain a person. There is a deep groove here. I’m sure . . .yes, I’m sure she was suspended by ropes, here, under her arms. . . .and across the chest." He drew a quick sketch of the woman, her head slumped, hanging from a tree branch suspended by a rope that crossed her chest and went under her armpits. Her feet touched the earth.

"Just what you would have to do, of course, if you had killed the woman – with a knife – but wanted, no, needed it — to look like she had been killed in a hunting accident, or by someone wielding a shotgun. She would need to be standing, and you would need her to be rather far away to pull off any sort of claim that it was an accident. If that is the intent here. One couldn’t just blast at her while she was still down on the floor, it would leave unmistakable marks. No one would ever believe it wasn’t pure murder. But if she’s already dead, you need to prop her up erect somehow, get the shot through the knife wound."

They looked at the sketch. John felt a pang of remorse for the poor woman. What a terrible, senseless end. He wondered if she had known it was coming.

"Sherlock, you’re forgetting something," Lestrade said.

"What?"

"There were no tire tracks and no footprints of any kind, anywhere near the body. Other than hoofprints, and dog’s pawprints, of course. But the entire hunt had been about the area, and you yourself came upon the body on horseback, with the dogs. So how did . . ." Lestrade said, then stopped. "On horseback. Am I right? It must have been. On horseback."

Sherlock nodded. "The woman’s shoes had no trace of soil or other marks that would have been made if she had walked into that forest. The shoes are a pale color. There can be no mistake. The nearest road was more than a half mile distant. If she had walked any distance at all, her shoes and her ankles would have shown it. Or if she had been carried in by someone on foot, there would have been some marks in the earth. Instead, what we have are smudges of dirt on the tips her shoes."

"From her toes dangling. When she was hung up by the rope," Lestrade said, seeing it in his mind. "The killer pulled her up by the ropes, but a little higher than he needed. Her feet dangled in the dirt, getting the toes dirty. But not the soles."

Sherlock nodded. "We need to look again in the wood. I believe she was shot not far from where the body was found. Her body was taken into the wood on horseback. Either by someone carrying the body with him on horseback (and I think we all agree it’s likely to be a him), or leading a horse with the body slung over it, and likely riding himself. Less likely is that he went on foot and led the horse. Too time consuming to walk. This person was likely to have been in a hurry."

Mycroft steepled his fingers. "This improves matters considerably. This individual would have to be local, and would have to have access to at least one horse, possibly two, and be well able to handle the horse under such an — unusual — circumstance. I think we can persuade the West Yorkshire police that that person cannot be Doctor Watson."

Lestrade shook his head. "Unfortunately, Sherlock started him on riding lessons straight off, and John does have some experience with horses. Prentiss said that one of the witnesses is the head groom at Rexworth Park. He spoke with Sherlock and John while they were out for a ride. He said he thought John looked capable enough."

"Capable enough?" John exclaimed. "Capable enough for what?"

The door opened. Detective Superintendent Weller and Detective Inspector Prentiss entered with grave faces. Prentiss was holding a piece of paper that everyone recognized as a search warrant. Everyone but John.

"Capable of murder, son," Weller said.

* * *

Sherlock furiously tried to educate Weller and Prentiss about their revelation concerning the murder, but Weller calmly enough told him to hold his tongue or be arrested for interference with police business. Lestrade gave Sherlock a warning look that also gave him some reassurance.

Lestrade stepped forward, in front of John. Shielding him, if possible.

"I’m happy to report, Detective Superintendent, that after you made known your interest in obtaining Doctor Watson’s clothing from the night before the murder, I have had them assembled and bagged, and Doctor Watson has given me a statement affirming that these are his garments from the night in question. I have a chain of evidence log," he offered, handing the bags to DI Prentiss. She scrutinized them through the thin plastic. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. She made entries on the log.

"Thank you for your assistance, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Glad we’re on the same team, now," Weller said. "Now kindly stand aside."

Lestrade swallowed hard. "Not unless you can tell me why."

"Now, Detective, I’m sure you understand we have our job to do here, and a murderer to catch. We’re inviting – Doctor, is it now? Not Captain anymore – anyway, we are inviting Doctor Watson down to the station. To assist us with our inquiries. Well, not exactly inviting. Prentiss, if you please."

Prentiss stepped forward. She had Weller’s agreement not to cuff him.

"John Watson, I must caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. . ."

To be continued . . .


	10. A Love Story.

John’s face had become like stone. He clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders, no longer subdued with the frailty of long illness, but looking like what he was - a soldier, about to be taken prisoner. He looked long on Sherlock, pale and momentarily speechless, and gently said, "It’s all right, Sherlock. Everything will be fine. I’ve done nothing wrong."

Sherlock marched rapidly towards John, and Weller interposed his huge frame between them. "Now, son, none of that," he yelled, feeling that a return to his customary volume might dissuade Sherlock from any rash action.

But it was Weller that Sherlock wanted. Sherlock exclaimed, gesturing with his hands: "Your handling of this case only be down to a total lack of – of – consciousness — let alone cognitive process. Don’t you see? Just look at Doctor Watson. Look at him."

Weller was losing what tiny particle of forbearing had resided in his broad chest and waved his hand back at Sherlock as though through a cloud of midges. "I see him well enough," he blasted back at Sherlock, "I don’t follow you, Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson shall have every opportunity to explain his side of the story. Never fear. Trust me, we’ve evidence that didn’t require a lot of – what’d you call it? Cognitive pro-cess? To put our Doctor Watson in our sights."

"Lestrade! You can’t let this happen. God, is Anderson about?? Have local IQ’s just – shrunk – to single digits?"

"Ah, a Leeds United fan," Weller boomed amicably, as he started hauling John by the arm out of the Hall. "‘What has 70,000 arms and an IQ of 170? Elland Road, every other Saturday.’"

He seemed perfectly comfortable with the deadly silence that followed. The West Yorkshire police were in the midst of bitter litigation with Leeds United over accusations of illegal profiteering for charges for police security around the Elland Road stadium during United matches. Leeds United was threatening to cancel matches over the row. Weller thought this would be a gift to the good citizens of West Yorkshire, and didn’t mind sharing that opinion whether asked for or not.

"Tall! Don’t you see, too tall!" Sherlock pursued Weller relentlessly through the long corridors of Riddleston Hall.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade – is this sort of prattle entertained in Scotland Yard?"

"All I care about is clearing cases and catching murderers. I usually do better to listen when Sherlock Holmes has something to say," Lestrade said vehemently.

"Well, try again, lad, while I just get Doctor Watson comfortable," Weller said. They had arrived at the police car parked in the drive outside Riddleston Hall as Lady Holmes came swiftly around the corner pulling off gardening gloves, evidently coming from the conservatory. She dropped the gloves in the gravel, which for her was a very great loss of composure. She rushed to Sherlock.

"The horses. Here. At Riddleston Hall. Are too tall. For Doctor Watson," Sherlock carefully ennunciated. "I presume you have observed that the victim. Did not walk. Into that wood?"

Weller and Prentiss exchanged glances that gave nothing away. Prentiss said, "We cannot disclose evidence from our investigation."

"And you have further observed that there are no tire tracks, no footprints, no drag marks – nothing but horse’s hoof prints, and dogs’ paw prints, around the body?"

Silence. But they were listening.

"The body was left there by someone, yes? She didn’t just — fly there. She wasn’t dropped from the sky. Someone put her there."

"Clearly," Prentiss said.

"And brought there her on horseback, equally clear from the evidence, I should think would be abundantly clear, even to you?"

"It’s possible . . . It’s a line of inquiry we may have been pursuing."

"How then, should Doctor Watson – nearly crippled with war wounds – on his first night in this house – and just a few days out of hospital — make his way out of Riddleston Hall, to Mother’s stable, where he had never been before – after midnight, in the dark, intoxicated — find and saddle up not just one, but two horses — probably – one for himself, one to haul the victim – and then mount up? Just look at him, that’s what I’m trying to say – Doctor Watson isn’t tall enough to mount any of them — unaided – the horses are too tall; and then we must consider where he found a rifle – how would he possibly know where to find a rifle – and how could he accomplish any of this without waking one of the stableboys????"

Sherlock stared at Weller, breathless after his inquisition, then stared expectantly at Weller’s hand grasping John’s arm, with the clear faith that he would immediately release John.

Weller didn’t. But he didn’t put him in the car, either. They all stood, like a tableau of a Greek tragedy, frozen as Weller considered and Prentiss held her breath for the judgment of Zeus.

"I expect he’ll be able to explain, then," Weller pronounced, "as how he was seen on horseback, the next day, and as how you told Jack Walter that Doctor Watson was keen to do some hunting. Pheasant and geese, I think he said. However you kill things down in London, here in Yorkshire we hunt waterfowl the old fashioned way. With rifles. Same as killed the poor lass."

Sherlock was about to launch into the explanation about how the woman had actually been killed with a blade of some sort, but they were already going. He needed more to convince them. How?

Weller pushed John into the back seat. John looked back at Sherlock, his expression remote. Sherlock felt a chill of fear down his spine as it dawned on him that John was possibly regressing, this fresh shock an insurmountable blow to his fragile mind.

He recalled the last time they had been parted, in Afghanistan, in Outpost Typhon. He had sworn to himself he would never, ever let that happen again. And already he had failed.

He couldn’t let John see that. John had to believe in him, have faith that Sherlock could save him from this, possibly the worst nightmare he had ever faced.

Even if he was starting to lose faith in himself.

"John, don’t worry. I will have you out of custody, I will clear you, I swear. I swear it, John, do you hear? I just need – a little time," he said desperately. Only the thought of being arrested too, of being prevented from doing what he must to absolve John as quickly as possible, stopped him from hurling himself at Weller and physically shielding John from Weller’s implacable confinement.

John stared back at Sherlock. Forces beyond his control were moving too fast, to fast to comprehend, and he was being taken from Sherlock, taken again before he had a chance to truly absorb the fact that he was even real, that they were real.

Were they real?

" . . . I just need a little time," Sherlock was saying, his voice breaking with distress.

John smiled faintly.

"Time," he repeated as the doors of the police cars closed.

* * *

Sherlock, despite almost ungovernable feelings of panicked helplessness and loss, stayed in the drive with Lady Holmes long enough to watch John go, looking lost and distant as he sat proudly erect in the back of the police car.

Only after Weller’s car vanished from view down the elm-covered drive, did Sherlock dash off toward Lady Holmes’ stables.  
After a moment, Lady Holmes went swiftly into the house, leaving her gloves in the drive as the only remaining sign of the tragic disorder that had descended upon her house.

Sherlock’s brain was pulled in a plethora of directions, but unlike any other case, Sherlock didn’t care in the slightest who the murderer was.

All he cared about was proving that the murderer could not, under any circumstance, be John.

Sherlock stopped one of the grooms, Lawrence, who was astonished when Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, examined him up and down with his most intense expression, and declared ferociously, "You’ll do – follow me – and don’t say anything," as he pulled him into the stables. Lawrence gulped and his eyes grew wide. What did the eccentric Sherlock Holmes want with him?

Before the groom’s mind could make much progress on this exceedingly fascinating question, Sherlock instructed him to bring out Sir Tristan. Sherlock then ordered him to stand next to Sir Tristan as though to mount. "I couldn’t -" Lawrence began to explain, but Sherlock frowned at him so severely that he shut up and didn’t say that Sir Tristan was so tall that he needed a mounting block, which he would have to fetch; he himself being five foot six inches feet tall, and all but one of Lady Holmes’ horses being big, tall beasts, between 17 and 18 hands.

Sherlock began taking photos with his mobile. When finished, Sherlock waved Lawrence off without a word and began marching back to the Hall, leaving a puzzled and somewhat disappointed Lawrence behind.

* * *

Mycroft went with Lestrade, and they followed Weller and Prentiss, John in their custody, to the tiny Cawton police station. Mycroft’s presence had been justified by the provisions of PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, requiring the presence of an appropriate adult, such as a family member, friend, or caregiver when an adult in custody is identified as having a mental health difficulty, separate and apart from the right to a solicitor.

"The appropriate adult’s role," Lestrade explained, "is to make sure, John, that you understand what is going on, and that you are understood by the police here." John did not protest.

Anything that could help him understand what was going on was good.

After being fingerprinted, photographed, and submitting to a mouth swab, John was seated in the tiny, unventilated interview room together with Mycroft, Weller, Prentiss, and Lestrade.

They made a kind of unnatural set of bookends: Weller and Mycroft as sort of extreme opposites on any scale one might employ - evolutionary, sartorial, grammatical; Prentiss and Lestrade, actually rather well matched.

Mycroft intoned, "Naturally you will timely inform Doctor Watson of the evidence against him, as is his right. I am about to ensue that nothing prevents you from recollecting that obligation." He dialed on his mobile. "Gordon, Mycroft Holmes. No, of certainly not! How you could even imagine - - - No, it’s a . . . friend . . . of Sherlock’s. No, not one of those. You heard about our spot of murder out near the Hall? That’s the one. The local DS – Weller, you know – I know, I know — seems to have determined that Sherlock’s good friend, Doctor John Watson, is a suspect. Please meet us at the local station, now. Yes, Cawton. Good."

Weller tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the region of his gut. Horace Gordon, a.k.a. "The Gorgon," was the most prominent criminal defense solicitor in West Yorkshire, probably in the North of England. Gordon was breathtakingly expensive, suave, dapper, and altogether shark-like.

The perfect mouthpiece for the criminal who has everything, Weller thought with annoyance.

* * *

The Interrogation of John Watson, Tape One, Date August 29, 2011, 14:30  
Present: DS Weller, DI Prentiss, detainee John Watson, solicitor Horace Gordon, Appropriate Adult Mycroft Holmes

 

John was patiently explaining to Prentiss, for the third time, the course of events of the night before the body had been found.

Horace Gordon, wearing a flashy hand-tailored pinstripe suit with an inappropriate length of snowy white french cuffs fastened with heavy gold cufflinks, was aggressively calling for an end to the interview as each 15 minutes elapsed.

"My client is being more than forthcoming. Your evidence appears to be non-existent. It is abundantly clear you will not be able to charge him with any crime, let alone murder. Doctor Watson has told you all he knows, which is precisely nothing."

Prentiss patiently bore with Gordon, who leered at her with huge, cosmetically enhanced teeth and kept shooting his cuffs in an irritating fashion. Weller leaned back against the wall and stared hard at Gordon as though trying to reverse the mythical gaze of the Gorgon and turn the solicitor to stone.

It wasn’t working.

Prentiss repeated for the sake of the taped record:

"Thank you, Mr. Gordon. We believe that Doctor Watson’s memory of recent events has not yet have been fully . . . .explored. As we have disclosed to you already, West Yorkshire police are in possession of a sworn statement by one James Bateman, the estate manager of Riddleston Hall.

"Mr. Bateman states that he saw John Watson, walking from north to south through the wood between Riddleston Hall and Rexworth Park, at 5:45 a.m. on the morning that the body of Henrietta Trimble was discovered; that John Watson was less than half a mile from Riddleston Hall at the time that Bateman saw him.

"And that Mr. Bateman is certain that it was John Watson that he saw, as he had been a dinner guest of Lady Holmes’ the prior evening together with Doctor Watson and spent a good deal of time conversing with him."

John rubbed his face with his hands. Now he was starting to doubt himself. He remembered Bateman from dinner, very fine chap. Ex-Army. Was there any possible way, under the influence of drink and drugs and the torments his brain was subject to, that he had somehow found a rifle and wandered out of the house? It seemed impossible.

If it had happened, he had no memory of it whatsoever.

But it was just days ago that he had no memory whatsoever of his life with Sherlock Holmes.

Gordon patted his back firmly and he realized that his solicitor wanted him to sit up and stop hanging his head like a guilty man. He did so.

At least it’s Prentiss asking, not Weller, he thought. Could be worse.

This is just what Prentiss wanted him to think. Weller said before John’s arrest that as a soldier, and a Para at that, butting heads with himself would just trigger his soldier’s instincts, to stay silent under interrogation.

But with Prentiss, a somewhat friendlier face (which was deceiving), Watson might well try to explain himself, try and prove himself innocent.

 

* * *

Lady Holmes unlocked the Gun Room.

Like many grand old estates, Riddleston Hall possessed a Gun Room with rows of glass cabinets containing gun racks, and varied specimens of the taxidermist’s arts: deer, wild boar, and larger game from Africa and India, the victims of the enthusiastic pursuit of hunting by past generations of Cholmondeley men (and some Cholmoneley women).

Her husband, Anthony, had cared only to hunt for rare plants and insects. He never had the slightest enthusiasm for hunting game, and while she believed he was a capable shot with a pistol, she had never seen him actually fire a rifle. Certainly he had not encouraged such pursuits in his sons, before his death.

Lady Holmes herself was violently opposed to hunting and never encouraged it in her sons. As such, the guns in this room were used only by the very rare visitor who came to the Hall, desiring to hunt, but neglecting to bring their own guns.

She tried to recall the last time that had happened, and decided it had been an impromptu visit from one of Mycroft’s friends at uni. As long ago as that.

There was a prominent gap in one of the cabinets where a rifle used to be. Lady Holmes considered.

She remembered very well where that particular rifle had gone, many years ago though it had been.

* * *

The Interrogation of John Watson, Tape One, Date August 29, 2011, 15:45  
Present: DS Weller, DI Prentiss, detainee John Watson, solicitor Horace Gordon, Appropriate Adult Mycroft Holmes.

The Gorgon was frowning. He wished John could be a little less verbose. But he clearly did not intend to exercise his right to remain silent. With such extremely grave charges, and such slender evidence as an eyewitness who barely knew the suspect, Gordon judged that it was better to let John persuade them of his lack of involvement in the case.

It was very early days yet; he could be held for 24 hours, and then a further 12 if Weller saw fit; longer, even, if Weller went to the magistrate with any better evidence than the Bateman statement. It, alone, was hardly grounds to charge Watson with murder.

Probably, then, they had more evidence.

"Detective Inspector, unless you have further evidence than the statement of James Bateman, who I think we can all understand is obviously mistaken – I believe you have no chance at all of charging John Watson with any crime.

"If Bateman saw Doctor Watson, why did he not speak to him? Being a houseguest of his employer, and his dinner companion of the prior evening, it is very strange that he would not have stopped to speak to Doctor Watson in the wood, crossing paths as they did."

Prentiss maintained her best detective interview face as she groaned inwardly. This, of course, is what she had wanted to know from Bateman, but she herself had not taken the statement and Sergeant Frosby, who had, hadn’t thought to ask.

She decided to bluff with a knowing smile that she hoped would lead Gordon to believe that Bateman had said more than she was revealing at the moment. The Gorgon looked at her appraisingly, and gave her a little shake of the head. He wasn’t buying.

Time for the unveiling, Prentiss thought.

"Doctor Watson. Can you explain how Scene of Crime Officers came to find a piece of your jumper, the grey jumper you wore at dinner, underneath the body of Henrietta Trimble?"

John’s heart stopped. That was impossible. He hadn’t worn that jumper when he went to the crime scene with Lady Holmes.

He hadn’t seen it since he took it off that night, falling into bed.

Possibly Sherlock had helped him off with it, he really didn’t remember much – aside from the kiss. He pushed that thought from his mind, along with his constant gnawing worry about Sherlock.

"But that’s — impossible. I saw my clothes in those bags. I looked at my jumper. It didn’t have any — holes in it, not that I could see. So no. It’s impossible. And I never touched the body, so nothing of mine could have possibly gotten under it."

"Unless you touched it before Mr. Holmes did," Prentiss said smoothly. "Isn’t it true that you went out for a walk in the woods after midnight? After everyone else was in bed? That you were drunk, and under the influence of drugs? That you have been suffering from severe memory disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder, and may not know, or remember, just what you did out in the woods?"

"No," John whispered. Just a few days ago, he had believed that all nightmares were over, for good. He had been wrong.

"No? You weren’t under the influence of drugs, you weren’t drunk?"

"I’ve said that I was, but I didn’t . . .I swear I didn’t leave the house. I never saw the dead woman, I never killed . . . " He wanted to say, "I never killed anyone," but of course he could never, ever say that.

"You were saying?"

"I did not kill Henrietta Trimble."

"What about the rest of my question is untrue? The memory disorder? The post-traumatic stress disorder? Do you deny suffering from these disabilities?"

"Yes. No. On that night, I would have to say, yes, I was. But I was getting better. The next day, I recovered my memory entirely."

"How are you certain it is entirely recovered?"

John was baffled as to how to answer that. "How do you know that you remember everything?"

* * *

Sherlock broke open the door to the Dower Cottage with a vicious kick, imagining it to be Weller’s head. The door swung open crookedly on its hinges.

He had received a text from Mycroft, bringing him up to date on John’s interrogation. So far, the evidence regarding the horses had not carried the day.

It was time to forget about John - the suspect, he reminded himself, impossible though that was, and focus on the victim. On Henrietta Trimble. The closest that Sherlock could get to Henrietta Trimble as the precious moments dragged by was the Dower Cottage, the retirement residence of the late Fredericka Trimble, Lady Holmes’ faithful maid.

Henrietta’s mother.

Everything here was just as he remembered it from his childhood. Solid old furniture from up in the Hall, when replaced, had found its way to the Dower Cottage, where it had received loving care from the meticulous Fredericka, whose standards of housekeeping appeared to excel even above McLeod’s.

Unless someone had already been here, looking for something, and cleaned up after themselves exceedingly well.

Someone like . . . Henrietta Trimble?

Why had she come before her appointed time? He realized he didn’t even know where she had been coming from, only that she had been arriving at Harrogate train station. He remembered she had been raised by an aunt in Scotland. He phoned the Hall with his mobile, intending to ask his mother about this. McLeod answered and said that she hadn’t seen Lady Holmes since the police took dear Captain Watson away, and would see if she had returned to the conservatory. He hung up abruptly before McLeod could say more.

He couldn’t bear to speak of it. He could barely think of it.

He saw a silver framed photograph on the mantlepiece. It was the same photo that his mother had shown him, a slim, elegant woman with sharp features and pale hair in a tasteful bob, a string of good pearls around her neck. The same pearls, he thought, that she was wearing in death.

Sherlock possessed depth of knowledge of the value of gems, and despite the blood, Sherlock had noted that the pearls were very good indeed, likely worth five thousand pounds, perhaps more.

Aside from the machinations employed to conceal the cause of death and to dispose of the body, this also made clear that the motive had not been robbery, at least not for any clear-cut reason as sheer lucre.

Then there was the state of her clothing. In no way were her garments disturbed in a way that suggested a sexual motive. Even if they had been removed and replaced, and he saw no sign that this had happened, there were no ante-mortem bruises showing any struggle such as one would find in a sexual assault. So, that was out.

Yet someone, someone close, had wanted Henrietta Trimble dead. And was taking the trouble to frame John for the crime.

Two of the most common motives for murder – money, sex, had seemingly been eliminated. He did not count out jealousy, an affair of the heart - but there was no evidence that Henrietta had ever visited Riddleston Hall or its environs. Lady Holmes’ story the first night seemed to clearly indicate that her existence had been kept a secret, and that Henrietta’s visit would have been her first to Riddleston Hall. At least, that Lady Holmes had been aware of.

He recalled Blessing having mentioned that Fredericka had faithfully sent some not inconsiderable sum toward her daughter’s upbringing, and wondered if that money had been stored up by a thrifty Scots aunt. Would someone have wanted to take that money from her? And who?

* * *

The Interrogation of John Watson, Tape One, Date August 29, 2011, 16:38  
Present: DS Weller, DI Prentiss, detainee John Watson, solicitor Horace Gordon, Appropriate Adult Mycroft Holmes.

"Now, returning to the night before Henrietta Trimble’s body was discovered. You said that you passed out in bed. Did anyone observe you sleeping in your room at any time, to your knowledge?"

John’s heart was thundering. He remembered what Sherlock had told him. And he knew that he just didn’t remember Sherlock staying in the room.

But, maybe, his memory of certain events of that night was not what it should be . . .what that meant, he shuddered to imagine, but he knew, he knew in his soul that he had never done this terrible thing.

". . . .Yes," he said. He saw Gordon visibly relax a bit at this.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes . . . someone did observe me."

"Whom?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I see. Did you awaken during the night?"

"I did not," he said firmly, repressing his seemingly solid memory of getting out of bed, of taking a piss, of banging his toe on the bedframe. "As I said, I had drunk far too much, for having just been out of hospital. I’ve lost a lot of weight, can’t handle it like I could. With my headaches, I had taken two pills. They weren’t really working. With all of this, you could say I was asleep, or passed out."

"And how do you know whether or not Sherlock Holmes stayed in the room all night after you fell asleep?"

John was nonplussed. He realized he had been boxed into a corner. By stating that he had never woken up, he couldn’t say really that Sherlock was there for any period of time, or not.

He started sweating in earnest. He felt Weller’s eyes drilling into him as though he could read his mind. His guilty mind. Because he felt guilty, very guilty, even though he knew he hadn’t done this awful thing.

He determinedly did not think of the other awful things he was guilty of.

Prentiss considered her next move. Before turning them over to forensics, she had examined Doctor Watson’s supposed clothes. None had any leaves, dirt, or other evidences of having been worn out in the wood. The jumper had no holes or unraveling matching the wad of bloody grey yarn found under the body.

And no visible bloodstains.

Unless they really weren’t Watson’s clothes, and he was lying.

Or Lestrade was lying.

* * *

Sherlock paced. He needed facts and he needed them now. He started patiently searching the Dower Cottage.

The cozy sitting room at the front of the house had nothing more than the photograph on the mantlepiece and a bookcase with carefully bound collections of old magazines, which he thumbed through hastily. Mostly Country Life, The Lady, Horse & Hound, and the occasional Hello! Several of the magazines had turned down corners, and he examined those first.

In an issue of The Lady, more than twenty years old, someone, presumably Fredericka, had circled an advertisement for a housekeeper in Surrey:

"Housekeeper/Maid for elderly widow, unsuccessful novelist, still independent lady who needs some assistance. Must drive, usual housekeeping and personal care, light gardening. References essential. Inquires to Box 12345."

And in many of the magazines, he found corners turned down at any page that referenced Richard, Marquess of Rexworth, master of the vast estate of Rexworth Park in West Yorkshire and even more magnificent estate of Pourroy House in Surrey.

The glamorous Marquess of Rexworth’s social life was documented in carefully preserved magazines, through his scandalous early divorce from the first Lady Rexworth, the cause of which was rumored to be her incessant affairs; his middle years as an international playboy, a sometime companion of notables such as Aly Khan; his marriage, in his late 40s, to Vanessa Allensby, a notorious jet-setter who succeeded where so many had failed, leading him to the altar and producing an heir, Reginald, with almost unseemly haste.

Finally, the tragedy of his progressive affliction with multiple sclerosis, for which Vanessa became a leading figure on the charity circuit, as Richard faded from public view. It was rumored that when he became ill, Rexworth was shut up and permitted to fall into disrepair; Vanessa preferred their London townhouse, the French Riviera, and the yachts of Russian billionaires; she never visited either of the vast Rexworth and Pourroy estates.

And so Richard, former international playboy, never visited anywhere at all, being maintained in the Pourroy estate by a platoon of well-paid nurses and attendants, while his wife and son became standard-bearers of fashionable London society, until the memory of Richard Rexworth became mere shadow, forgotten by all.

Not all, exactly. There was one person who quite obviously kept Richard Rexworth constantly in her thoughts.

Fredericka Trimble.

The humble farm girl who had been forced to give up her illegitimate daughter as a mere teenager, and had entered service with Lady Cholmondeley, Lady Holmes’ mother, and never married.

Telling Blessing, the cook, that although "she were a lady’s maid, her daughter should be a lady."

A lady who was in possession of a pearl necklace that would not be out of place on a minor royal.

Sherlock placed his hands over his eyes. Sometimes he needed darkness, and absence of stimulation, to think most effectively.

* * *  
Interrogation of John Watson, Tape One, Date August 29, 2011, 17:23  
present: DS Weller, DI Prentiss, detainee John Watson, solicitor Horace Gordon, Appropriate Adult Mycroft Holmes

Gordon indicated that he needed a break in the interview to consult with his client, and Prentiss noted the time and stopped the tape. She and Weller left the room to give them privacy.

Gordon showed John photos from Sherlock, with explanatory text in the briefest possible terms, together with photos from the crime scene showing the slightly damp, sometimes muddy ground around the body and the clear prints from horses and dogs. John could almost laugh, but the grim circumstances made it die in his throat. He understood what Sherlock was trying to prove. He shook his head.

Gordon indicated that Prentiss should rejoin them and recommence the interview. John looked at his watch. It felt like he had been in this sweltering box for twelve hours at least. He tried not to imagine what it would be like to stay here, in the Cawton jail, for another twenty three hours, possibly more.

Gordon said, "Detective Inspector Prentiss, I take it you have considered – by which I mean, has the West Yorkshire police considered, in the course of this investigation – the means by which the victim came to be in the middle of the wood?"

She knew this was their weak spot. She hadn’t expected Gordon, so fresh to the case, to put his finger on the pulse of it so quickly. But other than James Bateman’s statement, and the scrap of gray yarn under the body, they had no leads whatsoever in this troubling case.

They weren’t turning John Watson loose unless they had no other choice.

Gordon scrolled through the photographs, showing Lawrence standing next to each of Lady Holmes’ enormous hunters. It was obvious that a man of his stature, which Sherlock represented was the same height and build as Watson, could not mount unaided. Only one of the horses, the grey one, was small enough that Watson could just possibly have mounted. Sherlock’s text informed Prentiss that if Watson had ridden Figaro to the crime scene, there should be abundant grey horsehair on Watson’s clothes as well as those of the victim.

She sighed. Prentiss asked if she could borrow Gordon’s mobile and he smugly agreed, with more annoying shooting of his cuffs. She glanced at Weller. Weller stirred himself and boomed out into the tiny room:

"When Prentiss gets back, we’ll all have a nice chat about Doctor Watson’s – involvement — in a prior homicide. One Francois Rene de Roel. In Switzerland. Six months ago."

Mycroft winced. He had, with the able assistance of Anthea, effectively suppressed all official record of John’s involvement in the death of one demented London cabbie; a member of the Chinese tong known as Black Lotus; several of Jim Moriarty’s minions in an explosion at a swimming pool; one Ivan Krasielovitch, a Chechen bodyguard employed by Jim Moriarty; the deaths and disappearances of four undersea treasure hunters in the Hebrides; and even the recent misadventures of John and Sherlock in Afghanistan.

But even Mycroft was no match for the zealous, precise, and voluminous record-keeping of the Swiss police.

Gordon’s glance at Mycroft made clear that his fees had just tripled.

Mycroft attacked his mobile in a last-ditch effort at damage control.

"I believe Doctor Watson shall exercise his privilege against self incrimination in connection with such alleged incident, which surely has not even a shadow of connection to the present case," Gordon pronounced.

Prentiss noted the interview suspended, and stopped the tape.

* * *

Sherlock put the magazines away and went to the bedroom. And without much effort at all, he found a little box with a flimsy lock hidden on the top of a tall bookcase, which could be reached by a footstool at the end of the bed by anyone shorter than Sherlock. He himself reached it easily with his long arm and slender fingertips. His hand trembled as he did so with the force of his anxiety for John. Not now, not now, he repeated under his breath, almost unconciously.

Without hesitation, he broke open the dusty box.

It contained a slim red journal with gold letters, stamped "My Diary" on the cover. It was not very old looking.

Underneath was an envelope, rather new looking, sealed with red sealing wax.

He started with the diary, written in the spidery hand of an elderly and infirm woman.

* * *

The Journal of Fredericka Trimble

This is a love story.

I know no one will believe me, but a love story it is. I first met Richard Rexworth at the May Day fete, and he was so very kind to me. I know what folk think of him now, but in those days, he was almost shy. He was just down from his final term at Oxford, and he said his father wanted him out at Rexworth Park to learn his responsibilities, just as he had done in his time. Richard said to me that he had planned to rebel, to run off to Paris with some of his friends, until he met me. Now, he said, nothing would keep him away.

And so it began. We saw each other every day; I made excuses that I blush to remember to escape from our little farm and ride out with Richard into the wood, or out in his car to villages far beyond Cawton, as far as Harrogate.

Well, I’m not ashamed of what happened next, although my parents near turned me out into the street with naught but the clothes on my back. It was great love and a true one that made our daughter, and only the old Marquess, Rupert, that was Richard’s father, stood in the way of our happiness. Because Richard told his father that he wanted to marry me, that I was in the family way and he refused to give me up. But the next day after that, my Richard was gone and I heard that the family had sent him abroad, to the Cholmondeleys in Kenya, I heard. This might have been the moon to me, and I waited and waited but he never sent word.

And so my girl Henrietta was born, and mum gave her over to Aunt Letitia in Scotland, and I being young and broken hearted didn’t have the strength to fight it.

When I was able to get a place with Lady Cholmondeley, I was that glad, I imagined that they might visit their kin in Kenya and I would see my Richard again, and everything would be all right somehow. But that never happened, Lady Cholmondeley forbade gossip about her Kenya relations and I understood there was some great scandal concerning them, but it was not my place to pry.

Soon enough, I began seeing in the magazines and newspapers pictures of my Richard, running after loose women all the world over, but in none of the pictures did he look happy. I knew my Richard, and I could see that he was sad inside, like me.

* * *

Time passed and Lady Cholmondeley passed on and I went into service with her daughter Eugenia, that is my Lady Holmes, as her maid. And I mean no disrespect to say that we became as close as sisters, though I never told her my secret.

One day, many years later, I received a package. It contained a lovely string of pearls of great quality, which I could see with my own eyes as having been privileged to handle Lady Holmes’ own jewels for years. It also contained a cheque for fifty thousand pounds, that being a vast deal of money in those days. And a short note, stating that I would know who it was from, and who these things were for, and that they came from the heart, and that he was sorry, for everything.

Well, I had a little collapse at that time, it bringing everything back. I won’t say any more about that. But I sent them both along to Letitia for dear Henrietta. It was this money that provided for her education and her house, along with what I myself sent by over the years, which must have amounted to at least that much.

I learned later that this was about the time that Richard had been diagnosed with the multiple sclerosis. And I determined to leave Lady Holmes’ employ, and to try and go be near him at his estate, Pourroy, which was in Surrey, to see if there was any way I could see him, or help him, in secret. I had no hopes of him every coming back to me, no, but to be near him, to see him sometimes, would have meant the world to me. And maybe to him too, as it was clear as day that his wife and son paid him no more mind than a piece of furniture.

And so I began to think of applying for a position as a domestic in Surrey, just so as to be able to do it. But about that time, a great tragedy befell Lady Holmes. Her husband, Anthony Delamere Holmes, disappeared on an expedition in Borneo, and was presumed dead.

The poor lady bore it all bravely for her sons’ sake, but her youngest, that being Sherlock, went through a terrible change and became a strange child, a great trouble and worry to her. And so I didn’t have the heart to leave her in her time of great need, and I put aside my own foolish plans.

* * *

Now we come to recent times. A month ago, I received a letter, asking me to come to Rexworth Park on a certain date and time, and to make certain I told no one. I was very puzzled but excited too, because I could think of no one but my Richard who should wish me to go there. And I was right.

A great shock and a sadness it was, though, because the illness had twisted his poor body so cruelly that he could not sit up straight nor rise from his wheelchair without help. Of course, age has not been terribly kind to me, either, but I still can walk straight and don’t mind saying I have kept my figure and my hair these long years!

But his mind was as sharp as ever, and his eyes as bright, though we both had tears in our eyes that day. He told me that he knew the disease was coming for him at last, and he could not rest until he made things right for his daughter. He said he could never explain or justify his cruel conduct over the years, and that he knew it had been the greatest mistake of his life that he had not defied his family all those years ago; but that he hoped he could make amends before he met his Maker.

And in the presence of his nurse, who was a kind man, he wrote out in his own handwriting, which was surprisingly strong because the disease is apparently capricious and will afflict one part of the body while leaving others alone, a will, leaving one-half of his estate to Henrietta, whom he declared to be his daughter, and one-half to his son Richard, with the stipulation that Henrietta should have charge of Rexworth Park and Richard, Pourroy, and the fortune divided equally. He said he would call his solicitor in the morning and notify him in confidence that he had made this great change.

As Richard’s direction, I witnessed the will, and the nurse witnessed it, and then he cut a large lock of his hair, saying that everyone knew that these days, from television, that inheritances and such all needed proof by DNA, and that the hair would be enough. The nurse also said that he had a bit of Lord Rexworth’s own blood in the freezer from his last round of tests, which would also be of value when the time came, and that he would keep it hidden there until needed.

I was unwilling to take such a thing, it seemed disgusting to me, but he sealed the will and the hair in an envelope with his own wax seal, which the nurse assisted him to prepare, and I took it with me and shall lock it in my box.

We said our goodbyes, which I will not describe.

* * *

I have written to Henrietta today and informed her of all this story that directly pertains to her, and specifically of the will, and I shall leave this journal for her to read when I am gone. I have been thinking it is time I confided this to Lady Holmes and took her advice, but I have kept the secret of my Henrietta's parentage for so long I hardly know how to tell it, and I have been feeling quite unwell.

This story is finished. I will say no more than I did when I began this tale, that this was a love story, and though it is a sad one, I am happy now.

* * *

The journal was dated just two days before Fredericka’s peaceful passing.

To be continued . . .


	11. Too Convenient.

Mycroft took the opportunity to speak seriously to John.

"John, I must tell you that I think it wise that you say nothing further to the police. Of course Gordon will have his advice, but as I am the — ‘appropriate adult,’ here," he frowned slightly to show that he did not take that responsibility lightly, "that is my advice. I hope you take it."

Gordon merely nodded his agreement, examining his manicure.

John felt his heart sinking and a sort of hopeless numbness enveloped him. Any chance that this was all just a formality, or some sort of grave mistake that would be corrected with apologies all around from the West Yorkshire police, was disappearing fast; gone, in fact.

The only straw he was left to grasp, and he was grasping it was all his might, was Sherlock’s promise to save him. He tried to think about that, and blot out the rest.

* * *

Mycroft was calling Sherlock to notify him of the statement of James Bateman and of the bloodstained grey yarn found beneath the body, at the same time that Sherlock was texting Lestrade, informing him that Henrietta Trimble had almost certainly been murdered because she was about to reveal herself as an heir to the vast Rexworth estate.

"James Bateman says he John walking in the wood? He’s mistaken. Preposterous," Sherlock exclaimed, outraged. "A wad of grey yarn – Matching John’s jumper? But — that doesn’t make any sense . . . that jumper is clean, no stains, no tears, you saw it yourself. Prentiss must be lying, trying to trip John up . . .or. . or .. . it’s as if it had been planted there . . . Mycroft! Mycroft, listen. Tell Lestrade to get out to Rexworth Park, now. Tell him to bring a gun."

Sherlock ran through the Hall, looking for McLeod. He found her in the kitchen with Blessing, who was preparing dinner. They both froze with amazement when they saw the state Sherlock was in. He rushed to McLeod, grasping her by both shoulders, and dragged her out of Blessing’s earshot: "McLeod. Tell me where Lestrade got John’s clothes. That he gave to the police. Did you collect them for him? It’s very, very important."

McLeod gaped at Sherlock and flushed. His grip grew tighter until she flinched and then he slowly dropped his hands. She hung her head. "I can’t believe that Captain Watson ever did such a thing. I would have told you, sir, but the police came so sudden and took Captain Watson, and then Lady Holmes hasn’t been about, I didn’t rightly know what to do."

"We? Do you mean Mother knows, too?"

McLeod could say nothing but her huge eyes said everything.

"Show me where you put his real clothes. At once," he said with dread. He knew what they would find.

"Please ask Blessing to leave the kitchen, sir. It’s better for her, that way," McLeod whispered.

Sherlock did so and Blessing removed herself with an offended air. After her footsteps had died away, McLeod went to the giant freezer unit and raised the lid. She removed a number of frozen packages of food before withdrawing a clear ziplock freezer bag containing a crumpled grey jumper.

"Lady Holmes and I found it in the laundry hamper, after that awful Weller said as he was getting a warrant. We didn’t want any harm to come to your Captain Watson. We never expected to find this, though, God save us," McLeod said softly, tears springing to her kind eyes.

Sherlock stared at the sweater. It was the new Barbour that he had purchased for John the very day that they had come to Riddleston Hall. It was stained with blood and had a very noticeable unraveling at the cuff.

"And so you switched this one for a similar sweater?" Sherlock could not help a small, satisfied smile. The blood pattern was nothing like from a shooting or a stabbing. There was no visible spatter. He could swear the blood was already coagulated when the stains were made. And then the cuff of the sweater clearly had been cut with a knife or scissors to unravel enough yarn to leave at the crime scene. It was child’s play to show that this had been planted. But by whom?

McLeod stepped back in horror at Sherlock’s smile. Sherlock had always been an odd one, but this was too terrible. He’s gone mad, she thought.

"I did, sir. The one I gave Detective Lestrade is a Barbour, and looks very like Captain Watson’s. Not so new, of course. What does it mean?"

"It means someone very close is trying to frame Captain Watson for murder. Think, McLeod: who, beside yourself, would have had access to John’s room, or to the laundry, between the night of Mother’s dinner, and the morning of the hunt."

"That’s easy, sir. Just myself, and that Janet that comes in twice a week to help when Lady Holmes is here. Other than the family, no one else would know where Captain Watson was sleeping or where the laundry is."

" Who is this Janet?"

"Why, Albert’s daughter, you recollect – she moved away to Leeds and got in such trouble, I don’t like to say. Now she’s back. Lady Holmes was kind enough to give her the work." Albert was the estate’s gardener and general handyman.

"Put this in a safe place, not in the freezer. And don’t speak to anyone about this."

Sherlock fairly flew from the kitchen.

* * *

Lestrade was reluctant to leave John, but he understood that John’s best hopes were with Sherlock now. Until now nothing about this case had been going John’s way, and it pained him to see John so hopeless. He itched to get out and interview this Reggie Rexworth, the Marquess of Rexworth. Apparently Henrietta Trimble was about to claim half of the vast Rexworth fortune. Motive enough for ten murders, he thought.

"I’m off to Rexworth Park, Sherlock’s found something big," he told Prentiss tersely. "I’m sure you and Weller can handle things. My advice, of course, is turn Doctor Watson loose immediately. If there’s anything rough, I’ll rain such hell on West Yorkshire that you’ll wish for a posting in the Orkneys," he swore.

Prentiss tried to stop him as he rushed out the door. "What did Sherlock find? Look, you can’t keep secrets from the investigation. We’re on the same side."

Lestrade paused. "Henrietta Trimble was making a claim on the Rexworth fortune. He said bring a gun."

He headed out. Prentiss vacillated, then went back to Weller and put him in the picture. "Let me go with Lestrade," she said urgently.

Weller nodded. "So now you’re dancing to the tune of Sherlock Holmes? Don’t let me stop you. Smithy!" He hollered, as though the station were not the size of a postage stamp. The desk sergeant froze at the stentorian blast. "Issue Prentiss a firearm. Now. Prentiss, I want you reporting in when you get there. If there’s any chance this is hot, you get on the wire yesterday, understand?"

Smithy fumbled in a locked metal locker and withdrew a pistol, holster and vest, and handed them over. Prentiss checked the gun and strapped it and the vest on, then followed after Lestrade, who was on his way back realizing he needed Mycroft’s car keys. He didn’t blink an eye to see Prentiss geared up.

"I’ll drive," she said.

* * *

Sherlock’s mind was tearing down two separate, yet connected, avenues of deduction. First was Janet, who was the only person that could have taken John’s jumper: why had she done it? Most likely, for an accomplice. Although a woman surely could have committed the murder by stabbing, the hauling of the bodies on horseback and the entire shotgun scenario almost certainly required a man, and a strong one.

This led to James Bateman, Riddleston Hall’s estate manager, swearing he had seen John in the wood before the hunt. He knew Bateman well. He was indeed a large, strong man; ex-Army. And had been the head groom, before Lady Holmes promoted him to estate manager some years ago. Certainly he could handle horses with ease.

The evidence was too convenient. Mycroft had been very clear: Bateman had left no room for doubt, had unequivocally pointed the finger at John. If Bateman had been in any way unsure, Sherlock could accept that it might be an innocent, though very unfortunate, mistake. Bateman’s very certainty gave him away.

Since it was clearly not true, could not be true, there was only one possibility: Bateman was lying. Impossible though that seemed on its face.

Bateman and Janet, then, in league together? To murder Henrietta Trimble? Why should they want to stop her from inheriting? Were they in the employ of someone at Rexworth Park, someone who most certainly wanted to stop Henrietta?

Motives could be left for later. Who to approach first? He realised he couldn’t do it all alone, but he didn’t want to wait, couldn’t wait, everything was coming together fast and his generally infallible instincts were compelling him to the realization that whoever had committed this murder, wouldn’t stop to commit another.

Bateman’s house was more than a mile distant. Albert’s cottage was nearby on the grounds of the estate. He made for the gardener’s cottage.

* * *

The Interrogation of John Watson, August 29, 2011, 18:10. Present: Detective Superintendent Weller, detainee John Watson, solicitor Horace Gordon, Appropriate Adult Mycroft Holmes.

After Prentiss and Lestrade’s departure, Weller and Gordon observed each other warily, like boxers in the fourth round.

John, admonished to remain silent, had been thinking very hard about the night of Lady Holmes’ dinner, the first night in Riddleston Hall.

True, he had been drunk, but that was later. He had taken pills before he went down – but those did not take immediate effect. At first, when they were all in the library before dinner, he had still been in possession of his senses. All of this talk of his having been drunk, didn’t cover the entire evening.

He recalled meeting James Bateman. Swapping soldier’s stories about Army life. They had all been drinking scotch. And then Sherlock had come in, distracting him so much that he paid almost no attention to the next story Bateman had been trying to tell him. John had been so transfixed by the sight of Sherlock in that exotic-colored shirt, that he barely knew where he was.

But now, he thought he could remember what Bateman had been telling him.

And the more he thought about it, a cold suspicion that turned to a burning anger overcame him. He stood up abruptly, Weller and Gordon both starting in surprise.

"Bateman couldn’t have seen me. The man’s a liar," John said, his voice low and shaking with barely contained rage.

Weller gave John his full attention. He, too, thought Bateman’s statement too convenient, but he was a local man, respected. There was no reason to doubt his word. And with Watson, a stranger, drunk, mentally ill, refusing to come down in the morning when summoned by Sherlock - according to witnesses - it all seemed to hold together. Again, possibly too conveniently.

"Speak up, lad, if you’ve anything to add to what you’ve said." Weller switched the tape back on and repeated the caution.

"Bateman’s a liar. He couldn’t have seen me," John repeated.

Gordon made clear by certain gestures that he wanted to hear this first, off the tape. John ignored him.

"Did Bateman explain why he was out in the woods himself, that morning?" John asked.

"We’ll ask the questions, son. Happen he did, though. He said . . .he were checking that the scent trial had been laid proper for Lady Holmes’ hunt. And I believe you were drunk and suffering from — amnesia, was it? At the time."

"Listen to me. Very carefully. There’s nothing wrong with my memory now. And there was nothing wrong with my memory that night, either: not my short-term memory. And I wasn’t drunk, not until after dinner. Bateman’s story is very strange," John said intently, trying to master his anger, "Because I could swear that he told me in the library that he was off to Liverpool at the crack of dawn, that he might even set out after dinner, if he felt fit enough. Lady Holmes had a new horse coming from . . .the Czech Republic, I think he said, and he had to meet the veterinarian at the port. He was quite excited about it.

"So: Why was Bateman walking around the woods that morning? Why wasn’t he in Liverpool?"

Mycroft expressed his amazement with the merest lift of his eyebrow. He hadn’t heard this, although he had been in the room. He had been talking to Lady Holmes. Weller turned to him. "Well, when was anyone from the Holmes household going to enlighten me? Were you waiting for us to put Doctor Watson into an iron mask and manacles, eh then?"

"Prentiss just informed us of Bateman’s statement this afternoon. I hadn’t been told of this new horse – so I had no idea of Bateman going out to meet it. I shall call Lady Holmes now."

Weller suspended the interview. Mycroft left the room briefly, then came back. "I’m afraid she’s not at the house. I spoke to Walter, the head groom. Apparently, there were some financial affairs to deal with concerning the horse. Lady Holmes wanted Bateman rather than Walter to handle it. Bateman was head groom for years, you know, before old Gerald retired and my mother promoted him up to estate manager. Bateman told Walter that there was a delay, the horse had a fever, the port authorities wouldn’t clear her. He said he was going to Liverpool today instead."

Weller mulled it over. This smelled very off. Very off indeed. He looked at John Watson’s face, the picture of outraged innocence. He considered Bateman’s convoluted, exceedingly convenient story.

Gordon, reanimated, renewed his demand that John be released. Weller nodded. "Happen I just about agree with you, Gordon. For once. I need to make a call. Hold on, son," he said to John, not unkindly.

Weller went to the tiny office in the back of the station reserved for his use when in residence. A few machinations put him through to the Port of Liverpool Police. After routine pleasantries with Driscoll, the Super, Weller confirmed that Lady Holmes’ horse was indeed at the port, but that it was not being held by authorities due to ill health. The horse had passed its inspection. The person designated to meet the horse failed to arrive at the appointed time. Eventually, they had been contacted and told that the horse would be met sometime tonight.

With a thrill that told him he was right before he even asked the question, he knew they had their man.

"Driscoll, do you have the man’s name? The man who was to pick up the horse?"

"That we do. Bateman, Jim Bateman."

"You’re a prince, Driscoll. I’ll stand you and your boys a pint next I’m down the port."

"That’ll be grand, Charlie. Be seeing you, then."

Weller rang off and went back to the interview room and switched the tape on for the final time.

"John Watson, this interview is terminated. Thank you for assisting the police with its inquiries. You’ve been most helpful. You are free to go."

John was already out the door, Mycroft close behind, Gordon quite forgotten.

"We have to find Sherlock. He doesn’t know about Bateman. We have to warn him." They were astonished to see the armed response vehicle pull up and Weller jump in, strapping on a vest. "Stay well out of it, boys," he cautioned.

Mycroft shook his head. "Hate to pull rank, Superintendent, but I think you’ll find I’m authorized to carry a firearm. And take charge of this investigation, if necessary. If you’re going where I think you’re going, we’ll be coming too." John was amazed, recalling Mycroft’s habitual avoidance of anything resembling legwork, field work, or wet work. Apparently Mycroft had a different side where family was concerned.

"Haven’t the time, I’ve a murderer to catch. While you’re on my patch you’ll follow my lead until someone higher up says different. Stay well back, I’m warning you both. We’re heading back to Riddleston Hall. I want Bateman. I assumed he’s armed and I’ve a feeling he’s very dangerous."

Weller screeched off in the armed response vehicle, and Mycroft and John followed in Mycroft’s armoured Bentley. When motivated, which was exceedingly seldom, Mycroft could drive very capably and very fast.

"Look under the seat, would you please, John," he directed calmly as they hurtled down narrow country roads. John withdrew a pair of bulletproof vests and a small metal case containing two pistols.

"John, I don’t need to tell you that you aren’t in any sense authorized to become involved in this. But I don’t want you unprotected and I know perfectly well you won’t be left behind. Leave the formalities to me."

John put on a vest and checked the pistol, for all the world as if he was transported back to Afghanistian, heading out for an op.

Right now, he was hoping to get to Bateman first.

He never really left Afghanistan, anyway.

* * *

Lestrade and Prentiss arrived at the very secure gates to Rexworth Park. It might have been the gate to a very high security prison, Lestrade thought. They pressed a button and a disembodied voice asked their business. Lestrade put his I.D. up to the camera and identified them.

"We need to speak with Reginald Rexworth. Now. Please open the gates."

The gates swung open smoothly and silently and they drove through.

The exterior security belied the complete desolation within. The grounds of Rexworth Park were not worthy of the name – overgrown in some places, dead or stunted in others. As they approached the great house, the stained stone, broken windowpanes, and gaping holes in the roof told a story of long neglect. Lestrade and Prentiss exchanged puzzled glances. Surely with the great Rexworth fortune there was money to spare to maintain the hereditary seat of the Rexworths?

The door was opened by a silent maid who led them directly to a brightly lit room looking over the devastated gardens. The entire atmosphere was one of disuse and neglect. The maid announced them to the Marquess of Rexworth.

The Marquess stepped forward but did not extend his hand. He was a middle-aged man with thick, waving fair hair, and strong, regular features that nevertheless were showing signs of succumbing to the dissipations of excess drink. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot and there was a strong odor of spirits hanging in the room. An open decanter and an empty glass told the tale.

He looked exhausted.

Prentiss and Lestrade exchanged glances. They had decided that the magic words "Scotland Yard" would be most effective.

"I’ve already spoken to the police," he said, his eyes drifting toward the decanter.

"But not to Scotland Yard," Lestrade said. "I believe you stated that it was actually you who originally found the body, in the early morning, and you telephoned the police in Cawton. Sherlock Holmes, who works with Scotland Yard, came upon the body shortly thereafter as local police were arriving. You were out . . .riding. Can you tell us what you saw. Everything, and it doesn’t matter what you told the police before. We’d like it again."

"I’m not sure I care to. Do I need my solicitor?"

"We can’t stop you. But all we want is to understand the events of the day that Henrietta Trimble’s body was found."

"Well, it’s no more than I’ve already said. I was riding early that morning. I knew that the hunt was coming, and I wanted to ride, but didn’t care to encounter the hunt. I don’t jump, not any more. I’ve a bad back, you know."

Prentiss noted this for follow up. If true, it might be difficult for him to have hauled Henrietta’s body up onto the back of a horse.

"How did you know it was a body?"

"A hand and the feet were visible, although the body was mostly covered with branches. It seemed very clear that the woman was dead. And no, I touched nothing. I know better than that. I hadn’t brought my mobile. I came directly back to the house and called the police."

"I know you have already been asked this, but did you know the dead woman, Lord Rexworth?"

"Detective ... Lestrade, is it?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said.

"I did not see her face. It was covered by branches. All I saw was her shoes and one hand. I was told later, of course, that the woman was the daughter of Lady Holmes’ maid. Very strange business. I presume she wandered into the wood and a hunter shot her, an accident."

"That is a theory we are working on, Lord Rexworth. Can you provide us a list of every person authorized to shoot upon your estate? The body was found within the wood within the Rexworth estate grounds," Prentiss said.

"Authorized to shoot? Well, myself and any member of the family, naturally. Our gamekeeper. You may be aware we maintain a private shooting club. We shoot driven game this time of year. The first drive of the season is tomorrow. A day shoot only. We are not yet. . .prepared to house guests at Rexford Park. I intend to change that, presently. The stables, though, are in good condition and there is a hunting lodge near the stables. We run the shoot from there. But no one arrives until tomorrow."

"Can you explain, then, how anyone should have been hunting in your woods that morning? Particularly as you say that the first drive will not be until tomorrow?"

Lord Rexworth smiled scornfully. "Naturally. Poachers, of course. There are always those ready to break the rules. The woods are only partially enclosed. It is quite possible, even easy, for someone to sneak into the wood and hunt without our knowledge."

"We have come into possession of some very alarming news, Lord Rexworth, that may come as a very great shock. You may wish to prepare yourself," Lestrade said. Rexworth’s face betrayed nothing. Interesting. Most persons would at this look very worried or frightened indeed. But Rexworth was bred to the stiffest of upper lips. He fixed them with his bloodshot eyes and did not evidence the slightest curiosity.

"Well," he said blandly.

"You mentioned that you are going to be making some improvements at Rexworth Park. The Rexworth fortune, sir, is well known. But as large as it is, I don’t believe you would be willing, would you, to divide it with anyone?"

"To divide it . . .whatever do you mean?"

"I mean that the victim, Henrietta Trimble, claimed to be an heir of the Rexworth estate. To half of it."

Lord Rexworth turned his face away and poured himself a drink from the decanter. "That’s not possible," he said.

"It doesn’t matter whether you think it’s possible or not . . . but I am asking you whether you were aware of it. Before you told the police that you found her body."

"I was not. Not aware of any such thing. It is impossible, I tell you. Please explain," he said, taking a huge gulp from his glass.

 

"I assure you that her claim will be verified. We have sufficient . . . material from which to do DNA tests. We will know very soon whether or not the claim is valid."

"What the hell are you talking about - DNA evidence?"

"Henrietta Trimble was your father’s child. Your half-sister, in fact. Her mother obtained a quantity of the former Lord Rexworth’s hair which is now in the possession of the police. Whether you knew of her claim or not, somebody obviously did."

Prentiss pursued, "Lord Rexworth, you don’t imagine we believe that a random stranger just happened to murder an heir to the Rexworth fortune, on the grounds of the Rexworth estate? And that she just happened to be strolling in the woods of Rexworth Park in the middle of the night?"

"Please leave," Rexworth said frostily. "I’m calling my solicitor. Anything further will be said in his presence."

* * *

On the way out, Prentiss showed a photograph of Henrietta Trimble to the silent maid.

"Have you ever seen this woman," she asked.

The woman looked terrified.

"You can’t protect them," Prentiss said. "All their money won’t save them. Or you. You know this woman was murdered, don’t you? Have you seen her here? You have, haven’t you? If you don’t tell us, we can charge you with accessory to murder after the fact; obstruction of justice at the very least. Don’t think we won’t."

The maid covered her face with her hands and burst into silent sobs. But she nodded her head.

"Yes," she quavered. "I saw her. She was here that night."

* * *

Sherlock approached Bateman’s house, some way down the isolated road that led to Riddleston Hall. He knocked. After a long moment, the door opened slowly.

It was Lady Holmes, looking stricken.

"He’s gone . . .he should have been gone before, though. Albert says they just left an hour ago. It doesn’t make any sense."

She explained about the Czech horse. "It went straight out of my mind, there was so much going on with the police coming and going. This afternoon I realized that the new mare wasn’t here. And then, I thought about poor Henrietta being shot with a rifle, and Sherlock saying there was no way Captain Watson could have found one at the Hall. So I went to the Gun Room. Just as I expected, there was only one rifle missing, and that one has been missing for years. I had given James Bateman that beautiful old fowling rifle, possibly you remember, Sherlock. Father made sure I knew my guns. I made a gift of it to Bateman when I made him estate manager."

"Mother, are you sure he’s gone? Have you seen Janet? Albert says he saw her go with Bateman a few hours ago."

She shook her head. "I looked. No one is there. You know, James has a gun cabinet with some hunting guns. I can’t imagine he would keep it anywhere else. But the one I gave him, it’s missing."

Sherlock went into Bateman’s house, quickly scanning. He found the gun cabinet, saw the gap. He did remember the gun, very well. 8 bore, 36-inch barrel, carving on the stock. It was missing. But under the cabinet was an open box of ammunition.

New, state of the art, tungsten alloy bird shot.

The same as found in the chest wound inflicted upon the corpse of Henrietta Trimble.

"Where would he go? Do you know, Mother?"

"He’s supposed to be going to Liverpool, to get the new mare." She said. "But he won’t answer his mobile. I tried."

"He has Janet with him, Mother. I’m afraid they are in league together. They are both involved in the murder of Henrietta, I’m certain of it. He induced Janet to steal John’s jumper. They wanted to frame him for the murder. It almost worked. But now, I suspect Bateman will try to . . . dispose of Janet, too. She knows too much." Sherlock was silent, trying to order his almost frenzied thoughts. Everything was becoming clear at last. "Mother. Doesn’t Bateman have an old cottage?"

"Yes, he always kept his parent’s little cottage. It’s out on the moor. Oxenhope moor."

To be continued . . .


	12. On Oxenhope Moor.

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge. . .

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all . . .

Ithaca has given you a beautiful voyage.

Without her you would never have set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.

 _Ithaca,_ Cavafy

 

 

There was an oil-smeared cloth laying on the floor that had been used recently to clean a gun. Sherlock wrapped it around his fist and broke the glass to Bateman’s gun case. He took a rifle and some ammunition and loaded it. Lady Holmes stood by anxiously, watching her son.

"Sherlock, don’t go. I don’t care what Bateman’s done. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I know you run to danger, you always have. But with you here, now, with me, I can’t bear it. Let the police take care of Bateman."

Sherlock was listening with only a fraction of his attention, but he did pause to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Mother, they are too far away. No one is closer to Oxenhope moor than I am right now. I have to go."

* * *

After leaving an anxious Lady Holmes at the Hall, Sherlock made for Oxenhope moor, some twenty miles distant through circuitous country lanes. The Land Rover dipped and rattled and the dust of a dry summer billowed behind him.

The question of Bateman and Janet’s ultimate aim consumed him. Somehow, it had to do with the Rexworth fortune. This led to unpleasant memories of Reggie Rexworth, the new heir. He and Reginald Rexworth had never been friends, but now he remembered one particular summer when he was up at the Hall. Sherlock and some admittedly dissolute companions had run into Rexworth in the village pub. Rexworth, even then, had been a vicious drunk.

"If it isn’t Sherlock Holmes! I hear your mother thinks mighty high of that James Bateman. Made him estate manager, I hear. Soon enough he’ll be up her skirts, if he isn’t already," Rexworth sneered loudly.

It was a classic Yorkshire pub moment: utter silence fell and the men put their pints aside, eager to see if this undeniable insult would have the desired result.

It did.

Sherlock flew upon Rexworth like a banshee. When they were finally pulled apart, Rexworth was barely conscious, with a broken arm, two black eyes, spitting up blood and teeth.

Sherlock emerged with a torn shirt, a scratch on his cheek, and split knuckles.

The boys in the pub muttered at first, the feeling being that Sherlock had gone beyond the bounds of a fair pub fight, but then the buzz was that Rexworth had insulted his mother, after all: it was ultimately adjudicated that no holds barred was quite right and proper under such circumstances.

Now, with Reggie Rexworth’s ancient insult ringing in his ears, the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. Bateman was a notorious Jack-the-lad, in those days; and when Vanessa came up to the country, she did not take a little local entertainment amiss after the rarified entertainments of the jet set. Surely Reggie Rexworth had been speaking from experience. His own mother, the glamorous Vanessa Rexworth, must have been taking her pleasures with Bateman herself, then. Why not now? Vanessa Rexworth was as glamorous as ever; and a vast deal younger than her departed husband.

And she was in residence with her son at Rexworth Park for the first time in more than a decade.

But this final strand of the mystery must wait.

Sherlock called Lestrade, telling him of Bateman and Janet, learning that the police now knew of Bateman’s lies and that John had finally been released. He was somewhat reassured to know that Mycroft was with John . "Tell them not to go to Riddleston Hall, I think Bateman did it all for Vanessa Rexworth. I’ll explain later. But Janet is expendable. He’s going to kill her."

He explained about the cottage on the moor. "Make for Oxenhope village, they’ll show you the way."

* * *

Oxenhope moor had largely escaped the tourism that swarmed nearby Haworth and other local parts associated with the Brontës. Oxenhope moor was part of the vast, timeless West Yorkshire moors that had inspired Wuthering Heights: seemingly endless rolling hills meeting low clouded blue sky; green and lush in spring, golden in the late summer, desolate under winter snow; dotted with stony crags and hillocks sheltering ancient barrows, crossed by the ruins of Roman roads.

The West Yorkshire moors had grimmer aspect, too, than their romantic Brontëan history: the site of the notorious Moors Murders, echoes of which sounded to the present day. A renewed hunt for the depraved couple’s last victim was even now underway in Saddleworth Moor.

Sherlock approached the Bateman farm and parked down the hill. The moor here was bleak and stony; the grasses of the hillsides fell away to inhospitable, rugged crags and unexpected dips and crevasses. Sherlock quietly exited the car with the rifle.

There was nothing here but vast sky, wind, and silence.

Sherlock ducked along rocky crags, straining his ears. The wind gusted and whipped his hair. He cautiously approached the rear of the cottage. Bateman’s car was here, he observed, his heart thudding and skipping in his chest. There was no sound within. He carefully looked through a narrow window in the back and saw no movement. But against an inner doorframe, he perceived a flash of color.

Fresh blood.

Sherlock was about to run to the front door when a distant thin sound floated toward him on the wind. It might have been the shriek of a bird, but the keening sound raised the hairs on his body. It was a woman, screaming. Out on the moor.

* * *

Weller and an officer with the armed response vehicle, Lestrade and Prentiss, and Mycroft and John in the Bentley approached the Bateman farm in a convoy. Weller was framing the scenario as reported by Sherlock as a kidnapping/hostage scenario, thinking ahead to the reports.

The small army strategically surrounded the crumbling cottage, but soon it was clear that it as empty. The blood on the door frame evidenced that someone had been recently attacked. A trail of smeared blood drops led out the door.

Prentiss was scanning the moor with binoculars. There was nothing but the wind-swept grasses and the occasional sheep.

"Fan out," Weller ordered.

The line of officers began marching steadily through the dry grasses, guns at the ready.  
  
* * *

Sherlock followed the blood trail out into the moor. There was trampled dry grass here, showing where someone had recently passed. The woman’s shrieks grew fainter, farther away, then faded to nothing.

The trampled grass gave way to rocky undulations that left no discernible track. There was a hill in the distance, Hope Hill, one of the highest prominences upon the moor. He made for it, imagining that a fleeing woman might think it would offer shelter.

After a few moments, he was proved correct, as fresh blood drops on the rocks seemed to lead directly toward Hope Hill.

He hoped the blood was Bateman’s.

* * *

The officers quickly picked up the trail. After some tense minutes passed, Prentiss shouted, "There," pointing at a distant hill. Tiny figures were running across the moor. A woman with black hair streaming behind her in the wind was struggling along a rocky precipice along the side of the hill; a man, Bateman, was running fast after her up the hill, a huge rifle at his shoulder, trying to take aim; and closing in fast, Sherlock with his own rifle. Sherlock could be heard shouting, but was too far away for anyone to hear the words.

The figures were now picking their way amongst tall crags and John could see that Sherlock didn’t have a clear shot.

John was screaming at everyone not to shoot Sherlock; Weller was swearing heatedly because the running figures were too far away; and Prentiss and the ARV officer had sniper rifles from the armed response vehicle, took aim, and fired.

They missed.

Prentiss swore and tried again. The running figures were too far away, and getting farther. Prentiss got off a wild shot that was closer to Sherlock than Bateman, rock and dust flying into the air.

With numberless long shots in Afghanistan and one spectacularly desperate shot through a window in London flashing through his mind, John reached for Prentiss’ rifle, turning to her without losing focus on the target.

"Give it to me, now," he said fiercely. When Lestrade nodded she permitted John to snatch away the rifle.

John began running across the moor, fast. His limp vanished. He ignored the searing, tearing fire in his abdomen.

The booming shout of Weller drowning out the other officers urging him to get back were unnaturally muffled as his concentration narrowed to only Sherlock and Bateman who, pinned between the urgent need to eliminate both pursued and pursuer, was swerving to confront Sherlock with his enormous rifle.

John had cleared the grass now, picking up speed, and was starting up the rocky slopes leading to Hope Hill, the rocks slowing him, seeming to grab at his feet.

The unique silence that surrounded a kill shot enveloped him and the only sound was his own breath, his own heartbeat as he stopped short, inhaled, exhaled. And squeezed the trigger.

Sherlock stumbled on the rocks. John’s heart stopped. Bateman crumpled back, arms flailing, the rifle flying from his hand as an explosion of shot burst from the huge barrel, and he rolled down the hill, screaming.

Sherlock stared back, rising and running a few steps toward John, eyes wide with astonishment, until the woman’s screams drew him back across the moor.

* * *

Sherlock and John withdrew from the murder investigation, having substantially solved the case between them.

Weller arrested Bateman as he was being taken off the moor to hospital, for attempted murder of Janet Oldfield, and on suspicion of the murder of Henrietta Trimble. Mycroft advised that reports should reflect that it was Prentiss, not John, who fired the saving shot.

It was not long before Bateman came to see that his clever plans were all for naught, and he willingly told his tale to Weller and Prentiss in exchange for vague promises of lenience by the Crown Prosecutor.

As Sherlock had deduced, Bateman had a long-standing relationship with Vanessa Rexworth. Aa well as a more recent dalliance with Janet Oldfield, a restless, recovering drug addict with too much time on her hands, willing to be flattered by Bateman’s still potent charms.

Shortly after the death her husband, Vanessa received a careful, dignified letter from Henrietta Trimble, announcing her claim on the Rexworth estate, and offering to settle matters quietly and out of the public eye to save the family embarrassment. Vanessa formed a plan to possibly buy the woman off.

To avoid any possibility of the claim becoming known in wider circles, she told her son that she fancied a visit to Rexworth Hall for the hunting season, and invited Henrietta to a quiet meeting at the Hall, a week before visitors would start flocking for the hunt when few people would be about. It had been Henrietta’s own idea to come up to the Hall a day early, to maintain the delicate confidentiality that she thought Vanessa Rexworth would appreciate. She had intended to telephone Lady Holmes after her meeting with Vanessa Rexworth and tell her that she did not need a ride from the station, that she would make her own way to Riddleston Hall.

Vanessa received Henrietta in the little study that she had refurbished to her own taste, gaudy gilded French antiques that made a grotesque contrast to the desolate ruin of Rexworth Park. She offered Henrietta a serious amount of money to drop her claim, but Henrietta surprised her by maintaining adamantly that even if she wished to, she felt compelled to respect the last wishes of her father, whom she had never known, but whom she now understood had deeply wished to make amends for a life lived on the wrong path.

And Vanessa, always impulsive, and possessed of a truly ferocious temper when crossed, waited for Henrietta to turn to retrieve her handbag before stabbing her in the chest with an exceedingly sharp letter opener that had formerly graced the desk of the Duchess of Windsor.

* * *

After staring at the copiously bleeding body for a long time, Vanessa realized she could not deal with this alone. She also knew without any consideration that Reggie would be of no help whatsoever.

She did the only thing she could think of.

She telephoned James Bateman, her old paramour, former Army man. He would know what to do.

And he had. He had thought of everything, so cleverly. He promised Vanessa he would help her cover up her crime to make it look like a hunting accident. If no one found the body for a while, possibly it would be thought that someone in the Rexworth shooting club had done it by accident.

Bateman knew better than to leave footprints or tire tracks in the forest floor. He brought out two horses from Rexworth’s stables, his great skill preventing them from making any protest; none of the Rexworth stable hands lived on the grounds to interfere.

Hauling Henrietta’s body onto one, he mounted the other and rode into the wood. At a likely spot, he tied the body up around the chest and dangled it so that he could blast the corpse in the chest with his largest bore rifle, obliterating the stab wound. The gun was a fine old heirloom given to him by Lady Holmes.

When he went back to the Rexworth house, he found Vanessa frantically trying to clean the massive amounts of blood that had issued from the body, destroying a pale Aubusson carpet.

"What if they don’t believe us? What if they think Reggie did it? He’s always drunk, and he’s mad for hunting, he’ll shoot anything that moves. What if they try to go after Reggie? He’s such a mess he won’t remember whether he did it or not. We have to think of something better," she insisted.

And so Bateman told Vanessa that he knew of a very convenient target. The brain-damaged, drunken, amnesiac paratrooper fresh from horrific missions in Afghanistan.

The local police would easily believe that he had gone off his nut and murdered the woman in a fit of delusion. And he knew just the perfect way to make it work.

But only if Vanessa promised to marry him. Which, under the circumstance, she did.

Bateman hauled off the bloodstained carpet from the scene of the murder and threw it in the back of his Land Rover. He helped Vanessa move an old, frayed and mismatched Turkish carpet from an upper floor to cover the bloodstained parquet floor of the study. And in the hours toward dawn, he approached his new friend, Janet, and offered that she would profit by doing a very simple thing - bring him the jumper that Doctor Watson had worn at dinner, replace it when he brought it back, and keep her mouth shut.

And Janet, bored, was up for a lark, and needed a bit of dosh. The switch was made, and when the jumper was given back to her with stains looking quite a lot like blood, she decided to pretend that it was some sort of practical joke and look the other way.

Later she realized it was no joke at all when Bateman tricked her into a ride into Liverpool that turned into a nightmare on Oxenhope moor. She had gotten her licks in, though, as it was his blood, not hers, staining the doorframe. She was a strong country girl and had a hard right hook. The police decided there was nothing with which to charge her.

* * *

When Weller and Prentiss went out to Rexworth Park, hunters were readying for the first shoot of the season. Weller didn’t have the heart to deprive them of their sport, but Prentiss would have called everything off if given the choice. As it happened, Weller didn’t give it to her. They found Lady Rexworth packing a bag for a long trip on a large yacht.

"Lady Rexworth, I’m so interested in these old houses. We’ve heard that you’ve done up your study so charmingly. Won’t you show us?" Prentiss asked coldly.

"Get out," Vanessa shouted. "I want my solicitor."

"Fine by me. I thought you might enjoy giving us the grand tour. Seeing as you won’t have another chance," she said.

Weller intoned the caution. The sound of hunters blasting away at pheasant filled their ears.

This time they brought out the cuffs.

* * *

In his valiant sprint up Hope Hill, John had re-torn his fragile abdominal muscles, not fully healed from the trauma in Afghanistan.

Doctor Foster was called back to Riddleston Hall to treat the patient; observing sagely that it was a universal truth that doctors made the very worst patients, and that John, unfortunately, was not the exception that proves the rule. Doctor Foster decreed that although no further surgery would likely be needed, that John should be kept quiet and wear a pressure bandage roughly the size of an old-fashioned girdle around his waist for the duration. "Rest and quiet, just a little walking every day; that is the best remedy," he decreed, shaking his head at the terrible scarring with pity mingled with respect.

The undignified and torturous bandage apparatus, together with the early autumn heatwave causing the skin under the bandage to itch terribly, made John hugely irritable. Confined to bed, or armchairs near windows with picturesque views of the grounds of Riddleston Hall, he fretted and fumed, and snapped even at the redoubtable McLeod as she brought him endless meals on trays.

Sherlock quietly kept him company, suppressing his own growing restlessness, reading stacks of his father’s interesting old research journals pertaining to rare and poisonous plants. He was relieved when one day, John finally asked for a laptop so that he could write up the shocking case of the court martial of Captain Monroe, and the bittersweet tragedy of the murder of Henrietta Trimble.

"I hid your old one, you know," Sherlock admitted. "You can have it back whenever you like. But it’s in 221b."

John glared at Sherlock. Another indignity. These seemed to be endless. Rather than snap at Sherlock for what he was sure, deep inside, had been well meant, he looked out over the terrace toward the stables.

"Let’s go for a walk," Sherlock proposed, following his gaze, hoping to improve John’s spirits. John fingered his cane momentarily, then put it aside. Sherlock deliberately did not draw any attention to this, and they made their way out onto the long green lawn that gave way to majestic views across rolling farmland. At the horizon, a darker smudge hinted at the wild boundary of the bleak moor, both embracing and threatening the ordered countryside.

John’s face seemed troubled, looking toward that darkness; and Sherlock suddenly wanted to remind him, all over again, that he knew how brave, how truly heroic, John was. "You saved my life again. On Oxenhope moor," Sherlock said, looking sidelong at John’s face.

"And you did, mine. In Afghanistan." John was walking a little taller now, his limp not troubling him. If he was hurting, he wasn’t showing it. So, this trouble was something else.

"Do you ever get the feeling . . . our luck must run out?" John said seriously. He genuinely seemed to want an answer.

"The only luck I’ve ever had, I have because of you," Sherlock replied.

The walked on in silence. John seemed to accept Sherlock’s cryptic answer. Their hands brushed and John realized that London was calling them both.

Now they were at the stables. Lady Holmes was here, watching the new Czech mare being put through her paces.

"Czarina was meant for Reggie’s Fascination," she sighed regretfully. Sherlock scowled at the mention of his old nemesis. Noting her son’s disapproval, she smiled. "But after all that has happened, I think I shall look at other options! Possibly even Mephisto, after all. What do you think of that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock watched the elegant Czarina, a dignified pearly grey with a precise gait, floating effortlessly over jump after jump.

"She’s a very different style to Mephisto," Sherlock said. "But do you know, Mother, I think you’re right. They’ll do very well. Balance each other out, perhaps. You may start something quite new."

Lady Holmes took John’s arm. "Come inside, Captain Watson. I want to show you something."

They went into the cool shade of the stables. In the corner, a bitch hound was nursing some healthy, squirming puppies.

"This is Tempest, one of my best foxhounds. The pups are almost ready to wean. Now that you’ve managed to keep Sherlock up at Riddleston Hall for the longest visit in – well, I don’t like to remember how long – I so hope you’ll make Sherlock bring you up often. Now don’t scowl, Sherlock, you can have alternate weekends with Mycroft if you really feel that way.

"Although at Christmas, I insist on everyone up to the Hall this year."

John and Sherlock exchanged looks, John happy, Sherlock resigned, but not quite as disapproving as he appeared.

"And so, Captain Watson, I thought you might choose one of the pups for your own. Sherlock really, must you be so negative. I don’t mean for London, of course. These are foxhounds, what do you take me for? We’ll train the pup up to run with the hunt. I think you might like to learn too, Captain. You’ve a fine seat, when you’re well nothing to stop you from learning to take a few fences. I can’t really ride anymore; and Mycroft detests anything resembling exercise, the aggravating creature. A throwback to his grandfather. But I thought you and Sherlock might come up to Yorkshire when you need — a break — from London. Do say yes," she said. John recalled the afternoon, not so long ago, but seemingly a lifetime already, when Lady Holmes had swept him up from 221b and brought him to Yorkshire to restore his health.

Despite his setback on Oxenhope moor, he realized that he truly was restored, in mind, body and soul.

He sat on the ground and let the puppies come wriggling into his lap. He chose one at random, a little clumsier than the others, but very bold.

Lady Holmes was beaming. "What shall you call him, Captain Watson?"

John’s heart was suddenly full of the sense of fresh life, new beginnings. He looked up at Sherlock happily, all of the cares of the past months falling away. Sherlock gave one of his rare smiles back.

"Lucky. I’m calling him Lucky."

 

The End.

 

Author’s afterword:

There really is a Black Team of special operatives in New Scotland Yard, to which I have temporarily assigned Lestrade; they really did foil a spectacular armed attempt on the DeBeers Diamond at the Millenium Dome; and the Black Team and other special firearms operatives really did go on strike from using their firearms due to ongoing investigations regarding the discharging of weapons, as described by Lestrade in Chapter Nine.

The West Yorkshire police really are currently being sued by Leeds United over charging for stadium security, with the United actually threatening to halt matches unless the police give in. Currently, the owner of Leeds United is under investigation for irregularity in his acquisition of the team through means of offshore shadow companies.

Oxenhope moor is a real place in West Yorkshire, within the general area called Brontë country, on the outskirts of the authoresses’ home in Haworth.

The village of Cawton, Riddleston Hall, and Rexworth Park are products of your author’s fevered imagination.

Lady Eugenia Holmes is a member of a branch of the notorious Cholmondeley family, whose members settled in the Happy Valley in Kenya only to become involved in several murders across the generations. The film White Mischief documents some of these events.

The terrible Moors Murders by the depraved couple Ian Brady and Rebecca Hindley between 1963 and 1965, are still under investigation as the body of 12-year old Keith Bennett has never been found, but is believed to be in Saddleworth moor. Searches of the moor are ongoing under auspices of volunteers as well as the Greater Manchester police. Hindley is deceased, but Brady remains confined to a highly secure psychiatric unit, Ashworth Hospital.

The story of Fredericka Trimble and Richard Rexworth, and their illegitmate daughter Henrietta, is my own invention (not a very original one.) It was envisioned as an oblique tip of the hat to the unexpected inheritance of Jane Eyre to the Madeira fortune.

However, in researching current British law in this area, I came across the 2006 case of Ashley Cusack, son of a former shopgirl whose father was Roger Clark, prominent millionaire and owner of Culverthorpe Hall, a vast estate in Lincolnshire. Cusack won his court case, but was awarded a pittance when Clark’s widow persuaded the courts that the estate was land-rich but cash-poor. The case is up on appeal. Nobody has been murdered in connection with that case, however.

* * *

The next adventure is "In the Footsteps of the Master: A Hitchcockian Thriller."


End file.
